Chasing Dreams
by Becky Tailweaver
Summary: PreESB AU. Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader cross paths as they rush to find the sender of a mysterious, coded message: a person claiming to be Anakin Skywalker. The mystery only deepens as they follow the trail of breadcrumbs across the stars.
1. Prologue 1

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

_**Author's Note:** This is a post-ANH/pre-ESB Alternate Universe written in response to an oldchallenge from the Luke/Vader Writers' group. I don't claim to be the absolute expert on Star Wars minutiae, but I do try to get everything right, so please forgive me for any little foibles. This fic is primarily movie-based, and will not attempt to draw on many EU details unless they become absolutely necessary for flow's sake. It contains references from all six complete films._

_Please read and enjoy!_

* * *

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Prologue 1**

The flagship of the Imperial Fleet was a magnificent sight to behold--powerful, deadly; sheer kilometers of armor and weaponry bound into a sharp, wedge-shaped design. That ship, the _Executor_, made even the largest of the conventional Star Destroyers seem as minnows before a mighty steel-gray shark.

To stand on the bridge of such a vessel, in command of the vast power of the Imperial war machine, gave one a dark, triumphant feeling like no other.

Darth Vader, Sith Lord and right hand of the Emperor himself, stood basking in that feeling, deep in contemplation as he gazed out the bridge viewports over the expanse of metal. He was pleased with the current situation; a true Sith was never _happy_, but at least for the moment, he was...content.

His ship was running well, all parts both mechanical and organic at peak performance. The Empire was on a winning streak against the Rebellion, having routed outpost after outpost, confiscating their weapons and arresting the terrorists. Despite the Rebels' recent lucky break against the Emperor's vaunted Death Star, they were far from victorious. Even with the loss of the new battle station, the Empire still had the might of countless ships, soldiers, and supply worlds to bring against them.

Vader himself was not particularly upset at the loss of that mechanical monstrosity. He still maintained that its planet-smashing power was insignificant and unnecessary--not to mention wasteful. Perhaps the Empire could afford to lose several dissident worlds--but not the hundreds outlined in both the Emperor and Tarkin's initial campaigns.

And besides, the damned thing was far too costly to fire up and run. Just maintaining the station could drain an entire system dry of resources within a month, to say nothing of the worlds turned to husks to construct the monstrosity.

No, to him the station was no great loss; a lesson for his master, perhaps, to help curb the useless extravagance. What _really_ got under his skin was having been bested, however accidentally--both by a ragged smuggler, and some hotshot junior pilot of the Rebellion.

A dark frown shaped itself behind his mask; officers nearby were lucky he wore the faceplate, or they would likely have taken long steps backward and end up falling into the crew pits. Vader was most annoyed by the effrontery of it--some hunk of junk taking potshots at him, while a nobody from some backwater world with no piloting skills to speak of got off that one lucky torpedo that took down the Death Star.

No...it couldn't have been luck alone--regardless of the space freighter on his back in the trench; _that_ smuggler was just lucky his attention had been so solidly on the X-wing pilot. The rebel pilot in question had glowed strong in the Force, young and raw, flaring like a star in those final moments.

Not just luck, in that case.

He wanted to find that pilot. Either to kill him, or interrogate him...or what else, Vader wasn't sure himself, and he didn't like uncertainty. It made him even more annoyed--perhaps just this side of _angry_. At least he had the Emperor's tacit approval in this; not only was the Sith Lord doing a stellar job of wiping out all Rebel installations in his path in the course of his search, but he would also bring to justice whatever snot-nosed kid the Rebellion had enlisted to blow up His Highness' new toy.

The thought also made Vader sigh--the fact that the Emperor wasn't interested in the Rebel pilot for justice, arrest, and information, but for outraged revenge. The price on the pilot's head was...rather impressive, to say the least. Half again what the Emperor offered for the capture, dead or alive, of Princess Leia Organa and several of the Rebellion's top leaders--and their spies had yet to provide them with even the pilot's name...

"Lord Vader?"

Brought out of his reverie by the timid lieutenant's approach, the Dark Lord turned aside from his contemplation of the stars to set an implacable gaze on the young officer. "What is it?" he growled.

The lieutenant swallowed, holding out a datapad. "The _Garwulf_'s head communications officer intercepted a coded transmission from Naboo, sir, which he forwarded to you via direct tightbeam. Priority One, sir."

"And why is a coded transmission from Naboo _my_ problem and not some peabrain's down in Intelligence?" Vader demanded with a scowl.

"Ah, the orders..." The lieutenant was paling fast, clearing his throat to speak. "_Your_ orders, sir--anything pertaining to names listed in the old Jedi Temple rosters is flagged to be brought to your attention immediately, sir."

"Jedi?" Vader snatched the datapad immediately, finding it to be one of the high-security models which required his personal passcode to read. "I rid the Empire of the last of those vermin years ago..."

"Yes sir, Lord Vader," the lieutenant went on smartly. "But the name _is_ flagged from the Jedi lists, sir. This message came in as digital text using a simple old-style Naboo encrypt, no audio or video. The report from the _Garwulf_ states that the trasmission originated on the surface of Naboo itself and was beamed directly to an Old Republic transmitter beacon thought to be out of service. It was addressed to, quote, 'the heirs of the Jedi,' from a listed Jedi Knight named Anakin Skywalker."

Barely finished entering his passcode, Darth Vader nearly dropped the datapad.

_To be continued..._


	2. Prologue 2

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Prologue 2**

As far as secret bases went, one could do worse. One could be lost in some frozen wasteland or baking to a crisp in a desert; heck, this particular base didn't even have the pervasive muggy heat of the Yavin IV jungle--or the assortment of large snakes.

But it _was_ dry, dusty, and plunked down in the middle of nowhere on a _planet_ in the middle of nowhere; if one was looking for amenities, comforts, or things to do on weekends, one was--to borrow the smuggler phrase--sith outta luck.

It was places like this that made Luke Skywalker miss even the dull, chore-filled days on Tatooine--at least then he could beg an afternoon off and cruise up to Anchorhead to hang out with his friends, doing what kids do. Here, there really wasn't much of what could be considered a town for about a hundred kilometers in any given direction, nor were any of those towns likely to be friendly to strangers.

Plus he and the other pilots weren't _kids_ any more, no matter that Han Solo never let the nickname drop. So no, going cruising in a landspeeder looking for neat gulleys to dash or rocks to jump was not an acceptable pastime for an X-wing pilot who was supposed to be on call.

Luke leaned back in his chair, setting his heels up on the porch railing of the barracks compound. The building had apparently once been a barn at some point in its long life, but with the addition of some lockers and a truckload of spring-set bunks, it served as sleeping quarters for the majority of the men stationed here. The place was made of wood, apart from the newly-installed wiring and some solar panels in the roof; come to think of it, the entire little "town" the Rebels now occupied was made of wood, much of it constructed years before they ever arrived.

Thin, dry, brittle wood, just like everything else on this planet. The land was flat for miles around, populated by lizards and insects and overgrown with scrub, thorny bushes, and stunted conifers. And there was no _sand_--Luke would have found sand quite tolerable--just baked, rocky soil which gave vent to an all-pervading dust that rose in clouds whenever vehicles passed, clinging to everything and rising to near-asphyxiating conditions at the slightest breeze.

Considering the lack of cover, and the fact that the thin wooden buildings gave them and their equipment absolutely no shielding, an idiot with a corroded scanner and one functional eye could spot them from orbit.

The higher-ups asserted that this was a temporary stopover, until they found another place to hide. The same thing they'd said about the last two bases, as they went scurrying with Imperials nipping at their heels, losing men with every emergency evacuation. Only five months into his grand campaign against the Empire, starting with his opening number on the Death Star, and Luke was becoming disheartened to see the utter lack of impact the Rebellion was making.

_Now I'm getting depressive,_ he scolded himself, as his thoughts fell into that dreary line once again. _That's it--time for a distraction. I wonder what Leia's doing..._

He dropped his heels to the porch with a _klomp!_ and rose to his feet, heading across the packed earth "courtyard," not bothering with a hat. On Tatooine, he would have described this weather as pleasantly cool; but many of his fellows, having not had the advantage of a desert upbringing, laid about on their bunks with cold drinks and fans--when they weren't expected to be suited and flight-ready at a moment's notice.

He stepped furtively into the farmhouse that was their current command center, hoping by the sound of things he wasn't disturbing some dire and important High Mucky-Mucks' Meeting--those tended to happen on an unscheduled basis. But it was sort of sad--and funny--to watch poor Leia and the commanders trying to hold court in what had once been someone's kitchen, with schematics and maps spread out over the stovetop. The living room was the only space large enough for the scanning and communications equipment.

Hoping he wasn't going to bother anyone, he leaned cautiously around the doorframe and poked his head into the room. Nobody was in the kitchen--odd, since Leia and General Rieekian were usually putting their heads together about _something_ in there. Curious now, he wandered down the hall toward the nearest source of human noise, the living-room-turned-intelligence-center.

Luke pulled the same careful move, peering around the doorframe to be certain he wasn't interrupting something he shouldn't. Inside, Leia, the General, and several of the commanders and communications staff were all bent over one of the intel consoles, crowded into what looked remarkably like a sports team huddle. Their voices were low and urgent.

"Uh...hello?" he hazarded--they didn't seem to be doing anything _terribly_ important.

He received only a few glances from the others, but Leia turned to face him. She didn't quite smile, but she did look glad to see him. "Luke," she greeted simply, beckoning him over. "Just in time--I was about to send for you. I think you should see this."

That got his attention--since when did a pilot get in on what the higher-ups were worried over? Admittedly, Leia _did_ let him sit in on a lot more than the other pilots...

"What's up?" he asked, coming to her side. "We have trouble incoming?"

"Maybe, after this," Leia admitted frankly. "One of the old transmitter beacons we sometimes use as a message drop just decided to wake up and beam us a message."

Luke blinked. "And that's bad because...?"

"Because anyone in the vicinity--Imperials included--can trace that highly unshielded, barely encrypted signal right to our location," General Rieekian informed him, nodding in greeting to the young pilot. "The beacon knew where we were, and sent the message directly to us."

"Or rather, directly to Artoo," Leia added, gesturing to the little droid parked next to the console, plugged in. The astromech turned its dome to regard Luke and whistled a hello.

"Hi, Artoo..." Luke glanced at the screen, then back at the droid. "So what are you doing receiving odd transmissions, huh?"

Artoo chirped a brief string, sending a translation to the monitor he was plugged into.

"Emergency communications?" Puzzled, Luke looked to Leia.

But it was the General who answered. "Near as we can figure, someone was able to rig this droid with an interstellar-level hypercomm receiver--like it says, some kind of emergency message system, raw text only. Whoever's on the other end sent the message to the Old Republic transmitter beacon, which then fired it off to the droid--instead of just holding the information in memory storage, like we've done occasionally in the past."

Leia nodded. "And whoever did that would have to have access to Republic codes to activate the beacon, since the Empire shut down all the old, unmonitored relays. Considering the contents of the message, I'm not exactly surprised."

"So...what's it say?" Definitely intrigued now, Luke leaned over the console again, trying to sort through all the technogarble of receive and decrypt to find the body of the message.

"It's very brief--just a surface address and what seems to be an invitation--but we're not sure what planet the address is from," Leia replied, taking a deep breath and pausing before she went on. "Then there's...the reason I thought you should be here. The message...it's from Anakin Skywalker."

All the breath rushing out of him at the sound of that name, Luke nearly sat down hard right where he stood.

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 1

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 1**

A single command from the Lord Darth Vader set the entire First Fleet abuzz with activity, ships and crewers alike scurrying about to carry out his orders. It didn't take much to get the _Executor_ and her attending Star Destroyers battle-ready, but everyone hopped to prepare regardless--checking targeting systems, priming weapons, fueling fighters, crew and pilots scrambling to their stations.

Then they all had to wait for their leader to communicate with the Emperor. That would determine for certain whether the operation would continue, or they would all go back on standby. Not that any of them knew what they were getting ready _for_.

Deep within his private quarters in the bridge section of his Super Star Destroyer, Darth Vader sent a priority comm to his master--then, much like his crew, had to wait for the Emperor to reply. Typical military bureaucracy; Empire, Republic, Jedi, or otherwise, an endless cycle of _hurry up and wait_.

He caught himself tapping his foot impatiently. Frowning, he stilled his movements; it did not do for a Sith Lord to be hurried or anxious, regardless of how often or how long he had to wait on his master.

Still, twenty minutes was a damned long time, especially for an urgent signal. Sometimes his master's sense of priority was rather...skewed.

At last, the light on the comm panel went on--a transmission from Coruscant was coming in. A blue-tinged holographic image blurred to life before him, dominating the entire wall of the chamber and staring down at him with bored yellow eyes.

Darth Vader knelt low, bowing before the self-proclaimed Emperor of the known universe. "Greetings, my Master," he began respectfully. "Thank you for replying in haste to my call." Untrue, but it never hurt to stroke Emperor Palpatine's rather bloated ego. It always made him more agreeable.

"Indeed. And what about this situation sends you running to me in such a hurry, my friend?" Palpatine's bored look turned to one of slight amusement. "I am no longer accustomed to holding your hand through these routine missions."

Behind the mask, Vader grimaced--but kept his tone civil. "I trust you read the briefing I sent, Master."

"I did." A bit of the bored look began to return. "And I don't see why you wish to waste time, energy, and my Empire's resources chasing after a man we both know to be dead."

"I don't wish to chase the man, Master," Vader protested. "He's gone. Dead and buried. What I want is to find out who has the temerity to speak in his name--and see them suitably punished."

The Emperor cackled briefly, as if his apprentice had just told a joke. "Why in all the Sith Hells do _you_ care? I had thought the name meant nothing to you."

"The name itself means nothing." Vader's fists clenched, but something inside him flinched at his master's words. "But whoever is using it could be--"

"Could be nothing more than a prankster seeking fame," Palpatine scoffed. "The Jedi are extinct, Lord Vader. Besides, no one of any real importance would use that name, and anyone else is just a pretender looking for a little attention. Let one of the Ops commanders see to it. I have more important things for you to do, my friend."

"Master, I--"

"I have long been aware that the Rebels have been using old beacons for their covert messages, and by leaving these beacons online, we have gathered a great deal of intelligence on their movements," Palpatine went on casually. "I believe the transmission was sent to the Rebels, and if it is such a directed beam as the report states, you should be able to trace it to whatever base it was sent to. I trust you know what to do."

"Yes, Master. But what about--?"

"Just track them down and wipe them out. I will send my own men to see to this..._rumor_ on Naboo."

"But Master--"

Palpatine's scowl cut him off without a sound. Under his mask, Vader's frown was equally thunderous, and his fists were so tight they creaked, but he offered no more protest.

"Your mission is the Rebels, Lord Vader. You will carry it out, first and foremost," the Emperor snapped. "I want every Rebel within three systems of that base eliminated."

"Yes, my Master," the Sith Lord gritted out.

"And stay away from Naboo."

With that, the transmission was abruptly ended, cut off from the Coruscant side. The Emperor was obviously displeased with him.

At the moment, though, he was angry enough not to care. _Why_ he was angry was difficult to say, but he told himself it was because he couldn't go chase down the Jedi pretender. Eliminating the odd Jedi was practically his first duty--it had been since the first days of the Empire. Why now did his master deny him his prey? What was so important about eliminating some little Rebel base--something that any of his captains could do? It took more than an Imperial Special Ops team to kill a Jedi--even an amateur one.

Still in a furious mood, he left his chambers and strode for the bridge, trying to walk off his ire. Anger gave him power; thoughtless rage accomplished nothing. He could kill a dozen crewers in his temper and still be stuck crushing one measly Rebel base.

"Ah, Lord Vader!" Admiral Ozzel, commanding officer of the _Executor_, addressed him with a salute. "The First Fleet stands ready, my Lord. At your command."

"At the Emperor's command," Vader growled. "Set your course for the Republic transmitter beacon, Admiral. We have a Rebel base to track down."

"At once, my Lord!" Gleeful at the prospect of an easy victory, Ozzel quickstepped off to give his orders.

As the _Executor_ prepared to jump to hyperspace, accompanied by her fleet, Vader brooded at the bridge viewscreens like a black cloud, his gaze fixed on the deep dark between the stars.

* * *

Removing his gnarled hand from the comm switch, Palpatine sat back in his throne and scowled down at his second audience. The hologram of the uniformed officer bowed lower under his scrutiny, his military posture never wavering.

"Lord Vader is anxious about this impostor," the Emperor stated, his scowl never abating. "There is much at stake here, Commander. When you arrive at the site on Naboo, kill everyone and everything you find there. Destroy any sources of information. I don't want so much as a serving droid intact when you leave."

"Yes sir, your Highness."

"You know the drill. No one knows of this mission other than Lord Vader and myself. Avoid contact with other Imperial troops, and do not let them hinder your objective. I expect you can reach Naboo quickly from your current position."

"I obey, your Highness." The distant soldier saluted once again. "My Lord...what of Lord Vader himself, sir?"

"My apprentice would not disobey me, Commander," Palpatine snapped quickly, his voice echoing. "Do not so lightly suggest it!"

The soldier all but prostrated himself. "My apologies, my Lord Emperor! I was thoughtless."

"Indeed." Palpatine's eyes narrowed, and he regarded his subordinate for long moments. "Commander Telm...if Lord Vader comes to Naboo...do not let him interfere."

Telm gulped, but bowed once more. "Yes, my Lord Emperor."

* * *

When the argument began, most of the other commanders made hasty exits, not wanting to get caught in no-man's-land. The only ones who remained were the comm officers who had to stay at their posts--and Artoo, who was still plugged into a console and was nosy besides.

Not even General Rieekan wanted to be in the same room with Princess Leia when she was in a temper--especially in those rare times when she was mad at Luke Skywalker. No matter how civil she could be in an argument, she could strip paint off a Star Destroyer at a hundred meters with her barbed words. Luke, who was a lowly pilot, hero or not, really had no business arguing back at a superior--but oddly enough, he was the only person besides Captain Solo who could stand up to her for long.

And even Han Solo eventually folded under the force that was Hurricane Leia. But not Luke--as far as stubbornness went, the princess and the pilot were a matched pair. The General had never seen two people with more indomitable wills than they.

Consequently, he gave the resulting explosion a wide berth.

"What do you mean I can't go?" Luke demanded, recovered enough from his shock to reach indignation. "I've got more at stake in this than anyone here--"

"That's exactly the point, Luke--you're too close to this to make the right choices," Leia replied--seemingly calm and rational, but adamant. "Besides, you're our best pilot right now. We can't afford to lose you over something like this."

"Something like this?" Luke shot back, ignoring the looks from the comm operators. "That could be my father out there--he could be _alive_, Leia--and I can't go find him? What if he needs help? Stars, what if the _Empire_ finds him first?" He began to pace in frustration.

"It could also be nothing," Leia responded, hands on hips, so far refusing to budge out of patient explanation. "It could be a hoax. It could be some outdated bit of scrap data from twenty years ago. We don't know--and we can't take the risk."

"No one else has to risk anything!" Luke retorted. "I'll go myself. I can find out where it came from and go there--"

"Just in time to trip an Imperial snare? I don't think so, Luke. I can't let the Alliance lose its best pilot on a snook chase--"

"_Snook chase?_" Luke snapped, whirling on her. "My _father_ is out there and you call it a snook chase?"

"Now that's enough!" The princess upped her volume, her reserve fading in the face of his ire. "This isn't just about you! You don't know if Anakin Skywalker is really out there. Think, Luke--why would it take so long for him to make himself known?"

"Gah--I don't know!" He threw up his hands in exasperation. "I don't know anything! But he could be alive!"

"I know you want him to be, but there are bigger things right now," she tried to explain reasonably, her stubbornness tempered with sympathy. "There are lives at stake here--we already have to evacuate and we need our pilots. Maybe when Han gets back--"

"What about the mission to destroy the beacon?" Luke asked quickly, brightening with hope. "Let me lead it! You said yourself I'm the best pilot. At least then I could find out where to look, and later--"

Leia was already shaking her head. "It's too risky. Luke...I don't know if you'll be able to make an unbiased decision. Like if you had to destroy the transmitter before accessing its memory, to keep the Empire from obtaining it. People will die if the Empire gets ahold of our transmission data."

"I'll do what I have to do," Luke replied earnestly. "I won't risk you or the Alliance. I promise. I just...Leia, if there's a even a _chance_..."

She closed her eyes with a sigh, trying to hide how affected she was by the raw plea in his voice. Somehow, she'd developed a soft spot for the reckless young pilot and would-be Jedi student--stubborn and careless as he seemed, he could be very sweet, and was one of the kindest people she'd ever met. His innocence even in the face of war was charming and endearing, and almost made her want to mother him; despite the fact that they were near exactly the same age, his naiveté always made her feel years older, and she often just didn't have the heart to turn him down. No matter how she tried to reason with him, even outright command him, he always ended up doing whatever he pleased, sometimes straight into danger--yet still somehow managed to make it all turn out alright.

And maybe, just maybe, he outmatched her for sheer willfulness.

When she opened her eyes again, he was still giving her that woeful, pleading look. _Oh for spreet's sake! He could melt a **Sith's** heart with that face!_

"Alright..._fine_," she all but growled. "You can have command of the mission. You and two other pilots can fly out, grab any data you can get, and destroy the beacon when you're done."

With a grin that outshone a good many supernovas, he swept her up in an exuberant hug. "Thanks, Leia! You won't regret it, I promise! As soon as I can find my father, you'll see--he's the best pilot in the galaxy and Ben told me--"

"Okay, okay, okay...!" Gently but firmly, she detached him from her torso and put him at arms' length, pointedly ignoring the snicker from the comm controller. _Not a single other pilot in the Alliance begs for missions with puppy eyes and then hugs their superior when they get it,_ she sighed to herself. "Luke, I'm only doing this because I trust you--and I'm hoping you do make the right decision when the time comes. If there's even a hint of Imperial activity, you _have_ to blow the beacon and get out of there. We'll set up a rendezvous, but if you or your pilots don't make it to the pickup point in time, you won't make it to the new location. And I don't have to tell you what that means."

Luke nodded somberly at her. "Big trouble, I know. But nothing's going to happen--the Empire isn't even sniffing at this end of the galaxy."

"Luke, I'm serious," she stated quietly, squeezing his shoulder. "The Alliance can't afford to lose you--not now. You're not just our best pilot...you're our _only Jedi_. Trained or not," she spoke over his attempt at protest, "we need you. Since the purges, the galaxy's not exactly heavily-populated with Force-sensitives, and right now you're all we've got. As a pilot and potential Jedi, you're probably the greatest asset the Alliance has."

Embarrassed by her frank praise, Luke shrugged and looked down. "I'm not _that_ important..."

"I know how much this means to you, Luke. Just make sure you don't take unnecessary risks. Make sure you come back." She offered him a smile. "Who would I have to boss around if you weren't here?"

Luke laughed. "Everybody else on the base?"

Laughing herself now, Leia shoved him toward the door. "Alright, get out of here. You wanted your mission, now get busy. You and your pilots leave by nineteen-hundred hours."

"Yessir! I mean, ma'am! And thank you!" With a jolly salute, he all but bounded out the door, off to round up two willing volunteers to go with him. She heard him whooping joyfully as he headed out of the farmhouse.

"Stars, he is such a _kid_ sometimes," she murmured to herself, with an affectionate shake of her head. It was no wonder Han's little term of endearment got used so frequently.

"Young indeed, but a brilliant pilot nonetheless," spoke the voice of General Jan Dodonna from the doorway, as the elderly leader stepped in. "He is an ideal choice to handle a fighter mission such as this one, Princess."

"I don't doubt his skills," Leia sighed, crossing her arms pensively. "It's his tendency to dive in over his head that has me worried."

The general smiled as he came through the door. "And in many situations we've had since he signed on with us, if he had not 'dived in,' we would have suffered many more losses than we have. And all that from a young man who has never had formal training or even sat in the cockpit of an X-wing before he came to us. For someone who's logged less than half the official flight time of most of our squad pilots, he far surpasses their scores. You would not be wrong to have some faith in him, Princess."

"I wouldn't have sent him if I didn't believe in him," Leia retorted with a fervor she didn't really feel. "I'm only concerned about what could happen if he runs into the Imperial patrol group that could also be after that transmission."

"You're not old enough to remember many stories from the Clone Wars, are you?" Dodonna asked gently, leaning on his cane. "The name Skywalker rings a few bells among the older pilots, and most especially those of us who held commands in the Old Republic. Anakin Skywalker was a hero in the Clone Wars, Princess. I never met the man, but I heard tales of how he could turn the tide of entire battles. Many will agree, his piloting skills were second to none, and as a Jedi Knight he had no equal."

"I _have_ heard things about him before, General. But he's...dead..." Leia trailed off as she realized her words could be wrong.

"Perhaps not, Princess." Dodonna cocked an eyebrow. "We should count ourselves blessed if Anakin Skywalker is still among the living. Warriors of his caliber are rare indeed--and if young Luke has even a half-measure of his father's skills, we are lucky to have him with us."

"So...you're hoping the message is really from Anakin Skywalker?" she asked, almost incredulously.

"I do. And were he to fight for us..." The old man fixed her with an intent gaze. "I would be honored and glad to have that man on our side."

Silently, Leia agreed--such a man as Dodonna described would make a valuable and impressive ally. But still, she had her doubts--and a dark foreboding that made chills crawl up her spine. "I don't know, though...I have a bad feeling about this whole thing," she stated, shivering a little. "Whether Skywalker is alive or not, we're still in danger. We need to start the evacuation as soon as possible."

Dodonna nodded. "I'll inform the squad leaders. Our fighters will prepare for escort duty."

"Thank you, General."

As the older man left, Leia found herself staring at the innocent monitor again, rereading the brief message displayed there The address seemed to flash at her, though the text remained the same--and she could have sworn she'd seen that sequence of letters and numbers somewhere before.

Beside the console, Artoo chirped a brief interrogative.

"Once again, you're causing quite a stir," Leia murmured, gazing down at the innocent droid. "How is it you're always at the center of these things?"

Artoo whistled again, this time something that sounded rather like an apologetic shrug.

She patted the astromech's round dome. "It's alright. You'd better unplug and go help Luke--he'll be wanting to get started soon."

Artoo chirped, cheerful this time, and obeyed. Murmuring to himself, the little droid trundled out the door in search of his master.

That left Leia alone in the "intel center" with the two comm operators and the scanner controller. "Continue scanning for Imperial ships and frequencies in the system," she ordered, heading for the door herself. "And make sure everyone knows that we'll be leaving by oh-nine-hundred tomorrow."

She was gone before they could salute and reply, her steps brisk and her mind swirling with doubts.

_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 2

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 2**

The journey was a lot of boring hours through hyperspace with only Artoo to talk to. And in the tight cockpit of an X-wing, there wasn't much space to stretch out when his legs got stiff--no matter how much the other pilots joked that he was the only Rogue who _could_ stretch out in an X-wing; fighters weren't really meant for comfortable long-distance travel. But he had a couple of ration bars to munch on and Artoo wasn't a bad conversationalist; the astromech had a lot more imagination and a better sense of humor than See-Threepio, that was for sure.

But when the appointed location had been reached, Luke and his two wingmen blazed out of hyperspace and immediately into a defensive formation, S-foils open, weapons on, and deflectors up. On his left wing, Wedge Antilles kept an ear on the hypercomm bands for nearby ships; on his right, a young recruit named Tay Mach used his forward scanners to search for their target.

Although in this case, "young" was a relative term; both Wedge and Tay were older than he was, but Tay had only joined the Rogues in the past month, so seniority was judged by flight experience and skill, rather than years. The new recruit was eager to prove himself, so had willingly volunteered for this potentially deadly mission. And Wedge, ever-regretful that his failure in the Death Star trench might have been what cost Biggs Darklighter his life--and Luke his best friend--had never hesitated to dive right in at Luke's side, no matter what the situation.

Luke himself had to keep his scanners on wide-band--like Wedge, keeping an eye out for their enemy. "Tay--any sign of that beacon?"

"I'm getting a signal now, boss," the green pilot replied quickly, fine-tuning the scan. "Point oh-four at two o'clock."

"Nothing on the bands," Wedge reported as well. "I don't think anybody's out here but us."

"Great. This'll be a piece of cake." Grinning at their apparent success, Luke locked in on Tay's coordinates and spotted the beacon--a hunk of metal and solar panels roughly the same size as his fighter, floating innocuously in space. "I'm gonna head out and see what I can get off it. Tay, you've got wide-scan."

"Aye, boss."

Trading off the scanning duty with the newer pilot, Luke fired his engines and approached the seemingly-dead beacon--marveling at its design despite its antiquity. There was no hint of damage or corrosion despite the fact that it might have been out here even several centuries.

"Gee, they sure don't make 'em like they used to," Luke commented into the innership com, where only Artoo could hear. "Makes me wonder why the Empire shut all these old beacons down if they still work so well."

Artoo trilled through the translator screen about security and the Emperor's paranoia.

"Right. I guess he'd want to have a communications system he could control himself."

Artoo whistled again, this time interrogative.

"Yeah, go ahead and see if you can access the beacon's memory banks from here. It seems to like you, right?" Luke added with a grin.

With a sarcastic honk, Artoo got to work, using the X-wing's transmitters to make his attempt. Since the beacon had interacted with him before, the astromech postulated that the unit might respond to what few codes he had in his own memory. His former master had wanted to ensure that communications were possible regardless of the circumstances.

"Got anything?" Luke asked, watching closely as if expecting the beacon to do something.

'Affirmative,' Artoo chirped eagerly.

And then the old beacon just...lit up.

Like an expanding flower, its solar panels unfolded, radar and receiver dishes opening and extending. Lights blinked across its surface as the ancient machine awoke once again--suddenly a noisy _presence_ in his X-wing's comm receivers. Static and streaming data poured forth from the old unit, flooding his ears with white noise and a dozen random messages possibly decades old.

"Whoa!" Reaching out quickly, Luke shut off his internal speakers. "That was a little too much. What'd you do, Artoo?"

Bleeping apologetically, the droid concentrated on reining in the apparently overeager beacon. The ancient thing was broadcasting all the messages it had inadvertently received since being closed down--many of them emergency distress signals from Republic ships caught on the Emperor's blacklist, confused and panicked queries from Jedi vessels, the stern voice giving the Order; even a few early Rebel transmissions, terse and hushed.

Artoo made a brief, sad noise at the memory banks those messages agitated. Such dark days those had been...

"Have you accessed it yet?" Luke asked again, wondering if he dared turn on his speakers again.

Quietly, Artoo whistled a short explanation--the beacon was simply repeating the same messages at him, not comprehending what he was sending it. It was not a very smart machine, really--just designed to receive, amplify, and retransmit--not like an intelligent droid.

Spirits falling at that reply, Luke's shoulders slumped. "So...then...what can we do?"

"It's taking an awful long time down there, Luke--you okay?" came Wedge's voice, nearly making him jump. Sighing, he switched on the intership comm.

"We're fine," he replied. "Just figuring out how to make this thing cooperate."

"You wanna hurry it up a bit, boss," Tay added, somewhat nervously. "We won't make the rendezvous if we don't leave in at least twenty minutes."

"I know, I know," Luke grumbled. "Just...give me a little more time. We'll make this work." Toggling his comm again, he turned his attention back to Artoo. "Is there any way at _all_ we can get that information?"

The astromech was silent for a moment, then hooted a short reply.

"You mean...spacewalk? That thing has a datajack somewhere?"

An affirmative beep.

"Okay..." he sighed reluctantly. "I'll get as close as I can. You be careful."

Another rather nonchalant beep.

Using brief spurts of his maneuvering thrusters, Luke began to scoot his X-wing closer to the beacon--well inside of recommended range, as demonstrated by the proximity alarms that began wailing at him. Grimacing, he switched them off just in time to get a rather worried call from Tay.

"Uh, boss? We'd rather not have to tow you out of here if you end up kissing that beacon..."

"I got it covered, guys," Luke sent out over the intership comm. "You just keep your eyes open out there. I'm so close to this hunk of junk the solar panels are cutting off my scan range."

"Right..." Tay cleared his throat, a rasp over the comm accompanied by a chuckle from Wedge. "Just watch your clearance, 'kay boss?"

"No problem," Luke replied confidently, switching off the comm once again. "No _kidding_..."

With the press of a button, the S-foils folded shut as he turned the X-wing on its side relative to the beacon; a couple more touches to the thrusters, and the fighter was carefully interposing itself between a solar panel and a couple of radar dishes, its speed matching the millenia-slow drift of the beacon through space. His fighter's right wingtip nearly brushed the beacon's hull, and his canopy was mere centimeters from the antennae of a radar dish--but he knew exactly where he was, knew the shape and dimensions of his X-wing like it was his own body. He could never explain it, but he _knew_--exactly how close he was, exactly when to stop.

There.

They were suspended mere handspans away, stopped relative to the beacon's motion, close enough to reach through the canopy and touch the old machine. Artoo beeped shortly--a message that translated roughly to "I knew you could do it" in droidspeak. Then, with a whirr that Luke could feel through the fighter's frame, the little astromech began to raise himself out of his niche behind the cockpit.

"Holy mackerel..." Tay commented upon reading his scopes, his awed tone causing Luke to grin. "That's flappin' _close_. How the hells does he _do_ that?"

"He just..._does_," he heard Wedge laugh, a tone of amazement in his voice as well. "That's Luke for you. You stick around the Rogues, Tay, and you'll see a lot more where that came from."

"_Stang_..." Tay breathed.

"Just stay ready out there, guys," Luke told them. "This shouldn't take much longer."

Artoo, now levered free of his socket, wheeled out along the wing until he could use his grasping arm to grab a strut on the nearby solar panel. Using the advantage of weightlessness and precise calculation, he sent himself drifting toward the body of the beacon, where his data told him the jack would be located. Once there, he had to use his grasping arm to stop himself; if he put his wheels down he'd be wrong-way-round to reach the terminal.

"Careful, Artoo," Luke cautioned, watching the little droid maneuver himself into position to access the data port.

Artoo whistled in acknowledgement, informing his master that he was plugged in and searching the beacon's memory banks. It would only take a few minutes now.

"Luke, we're down to ten minutes," Tay mentioned worriedly. "We need to hustle."

"Just hang on, we're almost done," he replied, beginning to feel antsy himself. He definitely felt the need to hurry--but it wasn't because he was afraid of missing the rendezvous. He felt...anxious, almost as if there was adrenaline in his system. Maybe there was--he felt like there was...danger.

Like when one of the Rebels' covert supply mission on Uther II went bad and stormtroopers flooded the landing bay and his blaster was already in his hand because he'd _known_ they were going to march around that corner...

Like when he locked his S-foils and turned to face a supply freighter coming up near Leia's transport--and his aggressive actions caused the transport captain to raise shields in alarm and an instant later the freighter opened fire and he'd _known_ that the ship was an enemy in disguise somehow...

Like when his squadron was ambushed in the Gein system and he'd felt _danger_ approaching moments beforehand and he _knew_ the Star Destroyer was going to come screaming up from the planetary shadow, TIE fighters already launching...

Like now. He _knew_...

"Wedge, Tay, heads up!" he called out, mentally cursing his useless scanners. "Something's coming!"

"I've got no readings," Tay replied, sounding puzzled. "My scopes are negative--no comm, no ships."

"Here's another tip, Tay," Wedge said, his tone one of grim humor. "And keep this one in mind--Luke's not usually wrong about this stuff. Charge your weapons."

"But how does he know?" Tay asked, though he did as he was told. "There's _nothing_ out here--"

Just as the word "nothing" left the young pilot's lips, the space before them was suddenly filled with huge, sleek white ships--and dominating their view was a single massive wedge against the backdrop of space.

An entire Imperial fleet had just dropped out of hyperspace in front of them--led by a terrifyingly vast Super Star Destroyer.

"...oh..._sith_..." squeaked Tay, frozen in horror.

Seven minutes to deadline.

* * *

The Force lit up like a bonfire the moment the fleet left hyperspace; Darth Vader gasped despite himself and stood ramrod-straight before the viewscreen.

"Lord Vader!" Captain Piett barked out smartly, whirling from his position beside the chief scanner operator. "We have two, possibly three Rebel fighters in close proximity to the beacon, my Lord!"

Vader turned to regard the captain. "'_Possibly_ three?'"

"The scans aren't definitive, sir--one of the ships may be too close to the beacon for us to properly distinguish."

The Sith Lord gazed out the viewport once more, his masked gaze falling upon the three silvery dots ahead. There was a nexus in the Force out there--it was all but screaming at him, just as it had in the trench over the Death Star.

_**You**,_ his mind hissed, eyes narrowing as he recognized that bright spirit. _Now I have you!_

"Wake the Admiral, Captain. And launch two squadrons of fighters. That should be enough for three Rebels." The Dark Lord fixed Piett with a withering stare. "Make sure the pilots understand that the transmitter beacon is not to be damaged."

"Yes, my Lord." Quickly, Piett went to obey.

"Captain..." Vader's voice was almost contemplative, as he stared out the window, concentrating through the Force. "The ship nearest the beacon..."

Piett paused. "Yes, sir?"

"Mark it. That one is mine." At last, the Sith Lord turned again, striding across the bridge. "Prepare my fighter as well."

"Immediately, my Lord!"

As Piett scurried to carry out his orders, Darth Vader headed down the corridor for the turbolift--not quite rushing, but coming very close.

* * *

_Burning skies, what a time for the Empire to show up!_ Sharply resisting the urge to jerk at his controls, Luke glanced up through his canopy at the cylindrical shape of Artoo--at the moment, the droid seemed lightyears away. "Come on, Artoo! Get the data and go! We have to get out of here!"

Artoo honked an urgent assent, his datajack whirring soundlessly in space.

"Luke, get out of there!" Wedge called. "We can't blow the beacon with you on top of it!"

"I know, I know! As soon as Artoo--"

"Leave it--it's just a droid!" Tay nearly shouted, his voice showing signs of panic. "We gotta go!"

"I'm _not_ leaving Artoo here!" Luke retorted sharply. "Cover me for just a second! He's coming back!"

Switching the comm back, Luke sent his next words to Artoo alone. "How much longer?"

The astromech's reply estimated one minute or less. Practically an eternity in the world of starfighter battle.

"Hurry, Artoo!"

"There's an awful lot of TIEs headed this way, Luke," Wedge informed him, steady as ever but with an undercurrent of worry. "This is gonna be rough."

Tay's voice was a mantra of terrified murmurs. What had been a rather quiet mission to grab data and blast a sitting target was about to become his first major space combat.

"Calm down, guys," Luke stated, keeping his own panic out of his voice. "We can do this. We've been in tight spots before."

"Yeah--except we had all the Rogues on our wings and not so many Star Destroyers around," Wedge half-laughed in reply. "Piece of cake, I'm sure. Engaging now!"

Already moving to combat speed, Wedge's fighter looped into a spin and dove at the first approaching squadron. Still terrified but determined, Tay followed, doing a simpler maneuver and using the distraction of Wedge's charge to come up on the side of a TIE. His lasers cooked it just as Wedge strafed two others, blowing one and taking a wing panel off the second. The other TIEs boiled around them.

Stuck between his droid's return and a tight spot, Luke could only watch helplessly as his wingmates went to battle for him. "Hurry up, Artoo! They need help!"

Artoo beeped--at last, he was on his way back!

"You have it?" Luke asked, checking his chronometer. "We've got four minutes, Artoo--speed it up!"

Another string of whistles informed him that the astromech had the data and was within a meter of his wing, preparing to return.

Luke switched his intership comm. "Guys, I'm almost out!"

"Good to hear," Wedge grunted. "Getting a little hot out here."

Fidgeting, Luke waited through the vibrations that told him Artoo was back on the X-wing. Before Artoo was even lowering himself into the socket, Luke was already backing his ship out of its corner. One wrong move and he'd crack his canopy, or knock Artoo off the fighter's back.

So he concentrated, ignored the battle raging around him, and touched his maneuvering thrusters.

"Are you in, Artoo?" he asked, feeling the whirr of Artoo's socket servos behind him. He received an affirmative reply--once again, his droid was secure. Moments later, his fighter was out.

He fired his main engines just as the nose was clear, throwing his X-wing into a hard turn that made Artoo squeal as he nearly took a wingtip off on the beacon's solar panels. At full power, he blasted toward the knot of whirling metallic shapes that were locked in combat with his friends. "Wedge, Tay, I'm clear!"

"We can't reach you, boss!" Tay cried, amidst the background noise of his X-wing's rudders roaring. "The TIEs--it's like they're guarding the beacon!"

"They want the data, Luke--you've got to blow it!" Wedge added. "We can't get close enough!"

"Got it," Luke responded tersely. "You guys get ready to jump!"

Coming about once more, Luke powered weapons and ordered Artoo to prep a torpedo. He'd nail the old beacon in one shot, and he and his wingmen could blow clear and make the jump to lightspeed.

His finger tightened on the launch trigger, crosshairs lining up over the hapless beacon. He prepared to fire--

--felt _danger_--

His hand jerked the flightstick hard, and his X-wing bucked up and to the left, rudder screaming and g-forces nearly overwhelming the acceleration compensator. Artoo hooted in alarm under the sudden stresses of his maneuver--

--but that quick turn saved him from the lancing green death that burned through the space he'd occupied instants before. Moments later, the gray-white shape of what he thought was a TIE Interceptor rocketed to follow its shots, hooking around in a wild corkscrew loop to pursue him.

Suddenly, he found himself locked in a dogfight--driven further and further from his target with every hard turn, every shot coming closer and closer to his fighter. He had time for nothing but concentration--on every slight movement of the ship, every roar of his engines, every little touch of _danger_.

Two minutes to deadline.

_To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 3

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 3**

Leia had been pacing nervously from the moment Luke and his two wingmen left the launch pad. Even now, hours into the evacuation preparations, she worried for them--especially for one of them in particular. What if they had mechanical problems? What if they ran into Imperials? What if they couldn't make it to the rendezvous in time?

"We're nearly ready, your Highness," General Rieekan announced, stepping into the kitchen. "The heavy transports are lifting off as we speak. Most of the personnel have reported to their shuttles."

The subtle nudge in his voice was obvious. "I'm always the last one to leave, General; you know that," she replied, trying to keep the sharpness out of her tone. It wasn't Rieekan's fault she was on-edge.

"This is one of the best evacuations we've had, Princess," the General explained. "No Imperials within light-years. It's almost relaxed out there. There's really no reason for you to concern yourself; the skeleton crew will be here for another three hours, until Captain Solo returns. In the meantime, you should--"

"Then I'll be here those three hours," Leia interrupted. "And I'll speak with Han before I leave, and I'll make sure the skeleton crew is aboard their shuttle. I'm not going until I'm certain everyone's safely in hyperspace."

Rieekan smiled almost fondly. "And then you'll fret until the pilots report in, won't you?"

Unable to resist a faint smile, she nodded. "You know me well, General."

"We won't hear from them for another seven hours, Princess. You should at least rest."

"I'll take that under advisement, General." She returned to her pacing, leaving Rieekan to shake his head and go on his way.

She didn't watch him go; instead, she went to the window and stared out at the people bustling back and forth, at the heavy transports lifting off in the distance. Again, she felt foreboding chilling her spine as she thought of Luke and his two pilots, out there somewhere.

_I can rest when I'm dead,_ she thought sharply, pacing back to the scanner screens. _There's too much at stake to slow down now._

* * *

As he roared down on the X-wing coming to bear on the beacon, Darth Vader found himself unsurprised when his opening shot missed completely. A flare in the Force rippled across space to him as the Rebel fighter jerked out of the way just in time to avoid the turbolaser fire--no way that pilot could have seen him coming from this angle. The X-wing peeled up and left quickly enough that if he turned just now to compensate he'd slam right into the Rebel fighter.

And it was that ripple in the Force that told him this was indeed the pilot he'd come across before, above the Death Star. Bright like a sun, pulsing with untapped strength--tentative spiderwebs of power reaching out, learning by doing; an untrained Sensitive, barely grasping the Force, using what little it could understand to keep itself alive.

And yet...this strong while still so raw...!

No trench this time--no shooting fleeks in a barrel. Just open space around them, two fighters facing off, skill for skill. And that Sensitive pilot indeed had _skill_--the Force was with him, his reflexes were quick, and his aim was deadly. As proof, the pair of regular TIEs that tried to hem the X-wing in for their Lord met with swift ends, even while the Rebel pilot avoided Vader's own fire. He handled the X-wing like an extension of himself--and perhaps it truly was; tendrils of Force-energy swirled invisibly around the machine, licking out like living flame to touch the surrounding space, his own TIE, even the distant beacon. The young X-wing pilot was _aware_ in the Force, even if he didn't realize it.

That much power, that much _presence_, even while young and untrained...such a being was a horrible threat to himself and his master, should it ever become a true Jedi--or even a Sith. _Especially_ a Sith--while an avenging Jedi was dangerous, there was no end to the death in Sith lineages; betrayal and murder ran rampant throughout their tales. It came naturally to those entrenched in the Dark Side. The Emperor would most likely order this pilot killed immediately, to avoid either scenario.

And yet...Vader didn't want to destroy the X-wing. He found himself preferring to disable the Rebel fighter--to capture its pilot instead.. An odd desire indeed--but strangely, not unwelcome. An untrained Sensitive with this kind of power--he would make a fine pupil, _surely_ the Emperor would agree, if he made his case well. He could not be trained as a true Sith, of course--not with the great secrets of the Dark--but perhaps as one of his master's Hands, talented and useful in serving the Empire.

It was such a shame the Emperor demanded the deaths of so many Sensitives Vader had uncovered.

He realized he wanted to meet this stranger, this lucky and skilled young pilot. To look into the eyes of the one who could make him miss, who could shoot so well, could fly like that--like _him_, almost--the one who destroyed the Emperor's favorite toy with nothing more than tenacity and a raw burst of the Force. At least then, if his master was unwilling to use this new tool, he could give the Force-sensitive pilot a Jedi's death, with a lightsaber--instead of blowing him up like any random enemy.

A new directive in mind, he let his troops worry about the beacon and concentrated on herding the X-wing toward the nearest Star Destroyer. To his dark delight, the Sensitive pilot fought back--dragging them both into gut-churning spirals, rocketing toward him with lasers blazing, dodging and darting, trying to escape his net. This Rebel was deadly prey indeed--and that gave the Sith Lord all the more enjoyment as he began to bring his soon-to-be captive in.

Vader allowed himself a tight, predatory grin as he worked hard at the controls. _This...is going to be **fun**._

* * *

Near-terrified at the skill of the Imperial pilot on his tail, Luke skittered like a panicked mynock along the hull of one of the Star Destroyers, dodging gun emplacements and laser fire all at once. There were gigantic Destroyers flocking in every direction he looked, like huge birds of prey closing in to watch the show. So far, his speed and proximity had kept him out of reach of the turbolasers and tractor beams--but he wasn't even sure how he'd survived this long, and he didn't know where Wedge and Tay were; the situation was so far beyond bad it was indescribable.

"Wedge!" he called again. "Tay! Where are you?"

He skipped aside of another blast from his dogged pursuer, hoping that his wingmen were still _there_ to answer him. "Wedge? Come on, guys, let me know you're still fighting!"

"...here, Luke!" came Wedge's voice through a burst of static, breaking up from distance and jamming interference. "It's...not so good...get to you..."

"Wedge? You've got to get out of here--we're out of time!"

"...lost Tay...think the last sortie got him...sith-hell bastards...!"

Cold settled in the pit of Luke's stomach, the icy hand of despair gripping his heart. Tay--new, eager, worrywart Tay--was probably dead, if Wedge was correct. Blown to atoms with his fighter in the horrific melee.

"Listen, Wedge--I want you to get out and jump! You hear me?" he shouted into the comm. "Get your fighter clear and get out of here!"

"Don't be...not leaving you, Luke!"

Luke gritted his teeth. "That's an _order_, Rogue!"

The comm was silent for a long time, and Luke dodged away from the strange-looking TIE behind him--a craft rather like an Interceptor's bigger, badder brother--fighting to get back to the beacon.

The beacon that the nearby Star Destroyer was pulling in with its tractor beam.

_Stang it--!_ "I gave you an order, Wedge--get out of here! Confirm!"

"...copy, Luke. I'm not going anywhere without you."

"Wedge, listen, you've _got_ to go!" It was hard to fly and talk at the same time, with the fighter on his heels. "Someone _has_ to let the others know! You have to warn them! This is my mission--so I'll finish it myself! You're almost clear--get out!"

"I can't just leave you again--I'd never forgive myself--!"

"Please, Wedge, do this for me. _Go!_"

Painfully torn between duty and loyalty, Wedge finally obeyed--Luke spotted his X-wing dashing across the conning tower of the Star Destroyer, heading for open space, a dozen TIEs on his tail and the other Destroyers closing in. "I'm sorry...I didn't want to end up failing you again..."

"You've never failed me, Wedge. Tell Leia...I'm sorry for being late."

"Luke, don't you dare die...!" At that final, choked farewell, there was a flicker of high-energy static over the comm, informing him that Wedge had finally jumped to hyperspace.

Twelve seconds to deadline.

The Star Destroyer was still reeling in the beacon--and the heavily-modified TIE Interceptor with the devil of a pilot was still hot on his tail.

Using the flak from the TIE he'd just destroyed as cover, Luke fired his engines to full throttle again and rocketed toward the beacon. On his back, the not-Interceptor swerved to compensate, green fire lancing across his path, driving him starboard instead. Irate, he glared out the side viewscreen at his round, gray-white enemy.

That Interceptor'd had a dozen opportunities to blast him out of the sky. And yet each time, the Imperial pilot had merely batted at him, scorching his wingtips with laser fire and chasing him back into the milling pile of the remaining TIEs. Pushing him ever closer to the nearby Star Destroyer's underbelly--and its yawning bay, surrounded by tractor beams.

Apparently, they wanted him alive--the other TIEs only tried to box him in. No one but the Interceptor was firing, driving him in whatever direction it wanted. He was being herded into captivity like a wayward nerf.

_Like hell I'm going down so easy!_ he throught at the Imperial pilot, grimacing. "Artoo, drop the shield intensity," he ordered. "They want us in one piece, so let's give the engines some more power."

Artoo beeped hesitantly but complied. The steady thrum of X-wing's four engines went up to a roar, and the powerful little ship lurched forward, bursting free of the net. Caught flat-footed, the flight of regular TIEs were left far behind, buzzing ineffectively like fat bumbles. Luke blasted around the rim of the Star Destroyer, heading into dangerous territory near its underbelly--too close to the tractors for comfort.

"Quick--Artoo, target torpedoes on the beacon! We've only got one shot at this!"

The astromech trilled, obeying. Without waiting for computer confirmation, Luke hit the launch button as soon as Artoo squawked a ready signal. Twin fiery missiles shot forth like hungry piranhas, heading for the helpless beacon that was being drawn in, barely a hundred meters from the Star Destroyer's bay. Determined, Luke followed the torpedoes down, finger ready on the laser trigger.

But he had forgotten his Imperial pursuer. Not as limited as the regular TIEs, the strange-looking Interceptor had nearly matched his speed, and now came up under his wing, lasers blasting. As Luke stared in disbelief, first one, then the second torpedo winked out of existence in two small, bright flares. The beacon beyond them was never touched.

"No--no!" he shouted into the confines of his cockpit. "Who in space can shoot like that? Stang it--this can't be happening!"

Artoo whistled, a desparing sound. His translation was hopeful, but not optimistic.

_If they get that beacon, there's no telling how much they'll learn about the Alliance!_ Luke's thoughts swirled madly as he came up under the Star Destroyer's belly, his path about to take him past the beacon. _I'll have failed them all...Leia, Han, everyone... I can't let that happen!_

Setting his jaw in grim determination, Luke gripped the flightstick in hands that suddenly shook, but never wavered. "Artoo...drop the shields and switch all power to the engines. I gotta do something. And...it's probably gonna get us both killed." _I'm sorry, Leia..._

Artoo's quiet chirp was one of gentle understanding--startling from the usually-saucy droid. 'You do what you must,' the soft beeps translated on the screen. 'I will always be at your side.'

"Thanks, Artoo." Luke couldn't help the smile. "Now let's make 'em hurt!"

Yanking on the stick, he pulled his X-wing into a sharp turn that left its nose pointed directly at the beacon. With all of its power concentrated in the engines, the small ship rocketed forward so quickly that not even the compensator could stop all the force of it. In moments, the beacon was looming large in his viewscreen once again.

The deadline didn't matter any more.

* * *

Even the flash of anger, defiance, and determination that burned through the Force didn't give Vader enough warning; he was not expecting the X-wing to swerve suddenly and accelerate at a crazy pace toward the transmitter beacon. For an instant, all he could do was stare in disbelief at the insane actions of the Rebel pilot.

_He's going to ram it! That crazy little--!_

It was so sudden, so unexpected, that he had mere moments to make his decision.

His master had commanded him to use the data contained within the transmitter beacon to locate and eliminate the Rebel base in this sector, as well as any outlying satellites. The Empire could stand to win a substantial victory, if the cell in this sector was indeed one of the command groups--perhaps even Princess Leia Organa's little collection of heroes. Such an order ranked far higher than the life of a single Rebel pilot, Force-sensitive or not.

Yet he still desired to meet this crazy, lucky, gifted X-wing pilot. For reasons beyond his comprehension, this strong new presence in the Force pulled at him, compelled him like no other before it. If he obeyed his orders, this bright little flame would be snuffed out in an instant, never to be touched again. His master would not care--the Emperor sought no new pupils, really needed no more Hands. His master had given him a _command_.

He had never disobeyed the Emperor's command. Bent the rules; sure. _Re-interpreted_ instructions; of course. Pushed the limits; hells yes, all the time! But never, _never_ had he countermanded a direct order.

In the next moment, hands tightening on the controls, he fed his craft's power to engines and weapons, darting after the mad X-wing. He didn't even need to use his targeting computer.

His thumbs smashed down on the firing controls, and green death lanced out.

* * *

Luke jerked bodily in shock as the bright flash enveloped him. He was so startled--no warning, no _danger!_ feeling deep inside--and was moving so fast that he didn't have time to respond. Before he could move, in the time it took to blink twice, his X-wing disappeared into an expanding storm of bright fire and explosion.

His ship rocked, groaning and shrieking around him. He heard Artoo squealing, heard his own voice shouting in alarm. Then, just as suddenly, the fire was gone again, and he was facing stars and the cold white underbelly of the Destroyer. His listing X-wing was losing power fast, bucking and shuddering beneath him.

He was shaking so hard, his mind so surprised that it took him a moment to realize what had happened. Somehow, the beacon had exploded before he reached it--blown to bits right under his fighter's nose, and he had blasted right through the expanding fireball.

Which had not done his already-scorched X-wing any good, especially with his shields down.

_But...how did it...?_ Confused, he blinked his eyes and tried to concentrate on his instruments. _Why would it just blow up?_

"Artoo? You still with me back there?"

A slightly weak-sounding chirp answered him, followed by a brief string of whistles.

"_What?_ It was destroyed by turbolaser fire? But who would--?"

His answer roared across space in front of his canopy, so close he could almost hear it--the TIE Interceptor that had been chasing him. Shocked again, Luke stared at the small ship in the distance as it looped around to come back.

_That pilot...saved me? No...he wouldn't save a Rebel. But...the Imperials want the beacon's data...so why...?_

He was thoroughly confused--but also well aware that with the beacon gone, now would be a good time to make his escape. "Artoo, what's our status?"

A somewhat apologetic-sounding hoot replied that a lot of the instrumentation had been severely damaged in the explosion. They were still hyperdrive-capable on one remaining motivator, but most of the electronics in the lower fuselage--which, fortunately for the state of his canopy, had taken the brunt of the blow--had been melted. Which meant the S-foil actuator was dead, and they had no sensors, no weapons, and very little navigational capability.

At the moment, Artoo was functioning as the X-wing's brain, controlling life support and basic flight algorithms. His stored jump coordinates had been deleted for the purposes of this mission; all that remained was the rendezvous point--where they were to meet with a fleet transport--which was in the middle of dead space.

But the deadline had come and gone by two and a half minutes. By the time they made the journey through hyperspace--slower, thanks to the dead motivator--the transport would have already gone.

Trying to coax more flight out of the ailing engines, Luke put as much power as he could into getting far away from the multiple Star Destroyers now coming to bear on him. Any moment now, one of them would have him in a tractor lock, and all of this would be for nothing.

_Wait..._

"What about the coordinates you picked up from the beacon?" Luke asked quickly, urgently. "Can we make it there?"

Beeping, Artoo considered what data he had--coordinates relative to their current position. After a half-moment, he whistled a hesitant postive.

"What--you know the place? Is it safe?" Glancing out his side screen, Luke caught sight of the TIEs coming up around him again. "We better go for it if we can--it's got to be better than staying here."

Artoo chirped an emphatic agreement, doing what he could to ensure proper calculation and balance in the remaining hyperdrive motivator. When it was as ready as it could ever be, he sent the message to his master.

"Okay," Luke stated, taking a deep breath. "Here goes nothing!"

He was feeling _danger_ again, like an imminent hammer about to fall--the nearest Destroyer was probably targeting him with its tractor beams that very moment. As TIE fighters led by the strange Interceptor roared in behind him, Luke pulled the lever--and the stars vanished into a whirl as the dying X-wing groaned its way into hyperspace.

* * *

Vader stared blankly at the empty space once occupied by the blackened X-wing fighter. Through his comm rang despairing apologies and stammered explanations from his captains; they had very nearly locked on to the Rebel when he made the jump to hyperspace. Quite unexpectedly, as well--his ship had been so damaged from the beacon's explosion that even Vader himself had thought it unable to escape. He had detected only a telltale flicker of desperate hope from its pilot before the X-wing shuddered and vanished.

"Piett," he rumbled into his direct comm line to his command ship. "Report."

"Yes sir, Lord Vader," came the prompt reply--nervous, but direct. "We've sustained only minimal damage, sir. Only the Star Destroyer _Dauntless_ received a small amount of close-range turbolaser fire on her bridge section from the second X-wing, which destroyed a few communications antennae. We lost only nine TIE fighters in the skirmish, sir, and one more is inoperable. Shuttle crews are preparing to retrieve it now."

Vader rather liked that about Piett--the man was quick and obedient, and much more intelligent than Ozzel. Perhaps some promotions were in order, once he had time to sit down and consider it fully. "Very well, Captain. Has Admiral Ozzel finally dragged himself out of bed?"

"Er, yes, my Lord. He reported to the bridge approximately five minutes ago." By Imperial Standard Time--Coruscant time--it was a rather bleary-eyed oh-two-hundred in the morning.

"See to repairs, Captain. Have the Admiral place the First Fleet back at standby-ready."

"Yes, sir."

Still staring into empty space, his mind working over what had just taken place, Vader was silent for a long time. His fighter hung still, in neutral, near where the X-wing had been.

What in the name of the Force had posessed him to destroy the beacon? Simply to save the life of a scrawny Rebel pilot, no less! Compelling Force presence or no, such an act was inexcusable. His master would not be pleased; he would be reprimanded, _punished_, and the Emperor would lose faith in him.

But...he had followed the pull of the Force. He trusted the Force far more than his master ever seemed to--and the Force was _still_ pulling at him, toward where the Rebel had gone, tugging at that place in his chest where once a heart had been. Demanding his attention, as it had when he'd received news of the transmission from Naboo...

_Wait._

"Captain Piett," he spoke into the comm once again.

"My Lord?" came the captain's quick reply, moments later.

"Did your scanning crew take the Rebel fighter's vector as it entered hyperspace?"

"Of course, my Lord," Piett replied. "We estimate he could not have gone very far, with the damage to his ship from...the explosion, sir." No, the captain would not dare to mention Vader's obvious disobedience of the Emperor's orders. "Would you like us to begin a search along that vector, sir?"

"No..." Eyes narrowing behind his mask, feeling the Force all but shouting at him, Vader waited three automated breaths before continuing. "Captain...what planet lies along the fighter's exit vector? It doesn't matter how far away it is--what planet is it?"

"One moment, sir." The comm was silent for nearly a minute as Piett consulted the navigator's computer. "It's rather odd, my Lord, but...it appears the fighter's vector heads directly toward...Naboo, sir."

_How did I know he was going to say that?_ Vader thought sarcastically, angry and somehow excited all at once. So the pilot had gained the transmission coordinates from the beacon--which meant the Rebels had indeed received the message sent from Naboo. _Heirs of the Jedi, eh?_

With the Force potential the pilot posessed, it was no surprise, really, that he had responded to such a message. Obviously seeking the famous "Anakin Skywalker" from whom the message had seemingly come--perhaps in search of someone to train with.

But...he did wonder how the message came to be addressed to "the Heirs of the Jedi." As far as he knew, no Jedi had ever broken their precious vows and taken a mate--none had ever produced children. None save those of endangered species, who were given special permission to increase their peoples' bloodlines--and all of those offspring were registered, tagged as Sensitives and potential Jedi, and had been destroyed. No other Jedi had dared break their sacred laws. Only he...

_No_. That life was dead--and the child with it. By his own hand, his own will. There were no "heirs" for the Jedi--any Jedi. And there never would be--not if he had anything to say about it.

"Er, Lord Vader?" Piett enquired cautiously. "Do you want us to pursue the Rebel, my Lord?"

Snapped out of his dark thoughts, Vader glared at the comm light. Chasing the Rebel to Naboo with the entire fleet...that would surely alert his master that something had gone awry. The Emperor wanted the Rebel base crushed--so that was what must be done.

"No, Captain," he rumbled. "Leave that to me. Ready the fleet for a search and destroy. Have Ozzel pair off the Star Destroyers to scan the surrounding systems--anything within an Incom X-wing's deployment range. If there are any signs of a base--Rebels, smugglers, or squatters--destroy it completely. Take only valuable prisoners."

"Ah--er, yes sir." Piet obeyed, though he was obviously confused. "And...er...will you be directing us, my Lord?"

"No, Captain. I have business with that Rebel pilot." _And whatever fool on Naboo is calling himself Anakin Skywalker._ Scowling to himself, still wondering how he was so easily disobeying his master, Vader at last fired his TIE's engines and cranked it around to head for his flagship. "I'm coming aboard. Prepare my personal transport. I will go to Naboo myself."

_To be continued..._


	6. Chapter 4

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 4**

"Well," Luke muttered, staring out at the shifting light of hyperspace, "Wedge should have made it to the rendezvous by now..."

Artoo, busy keeping the X-wing in one piece, did not reply--all his efforts were concentrated on keeping power flow to the hyperdrive motivator and the magnetic field. With the damage to the ship, it was a difficult task; with the S-foil actuator dead, the open wings created a hugely greater energy drag and the vibration pounded through the whole fighter. Already failing, it shuddered and whined precariously on its way, and all Luke could do was hold on tight and pray.

He glanced at the chronometer; with Wedge having made it to the transport, it would be another four hours before they left hypercomm silence and were able to communicate with Command. Another four hours before Leia found out, and would probably want to kill him.

He found himself amused by that thought--with all that had happened, and with the danger he was still in, he was more terrified of facing the Princess' temper than a messy crash at their destination or swift disintegration in hyperspace if the magnetic shield failed.

"Will we make it, Artoo?" Luke asked directly, hoping for at least a positive answer from the droid.

Sparing a bit of his attention, Artoo tweeted a short message--yes, he was optimistic, but he could make no guarantees with the condition of their ship. If the magnetic shield held, they had a good chance of arriving; what happened after leaving hyperspace was up to Luke himself.

"Great..." Luke mumbled, settling back in his chair. "Still a long way to go, though. Keep up the good work, Artoo...I think I'm gonna try to get some sleep."

If sleep was possible in the groaning, shaking ship. But he was exhausted from the battle and his nerves were strung out from all the close calls; he needed rest, or he'd be in no shape to land the ailing X-wing when they arrived.

When they got to the place that Artoo told him was called Naboo.

He wondered why he felt so sure he'd heard that name before. Maybe one of the Rebels had mentioned it...or mabe his aunt and uncle had. He knew he'd heard it somewhere...

Closing his eyes and trying to push away his worries, Luke used his contemplation of that name as a circle to calm his mind, reaching into old memories to solve his little mystery. Gradually, he nodded off in spite of the shaking fighter...

...falling into old dreams of love and adventure--dreams he'd not had since he was a child...

* * *

_There was a man, and there was a boy. _

_The man was no longer a young man, and the boy was no longer a child; still, it did not change the joy and camaraderie between them. There were smiles, and laughter. There was companionship, and fun. There was no war, no worry, no danger. No death. _

_Where once they had ridden a speeder bike together, the boy perched on the man's lap and pretending to steer, now they gunned the engines of twin swoops and raced each other across the open land, laughing and shouting. _

_The landscape was blurred by speed--or maybe something else, but they paid no attention. Sometimes it seemed like their surroundings were green, open fields and crystal lakes; sometimes it was more like hot, white sand and craggy canyons. The man and the boy did not notice. _

_The man could not remember how he'd come to be here, or why there was a nagging feeling that he was supposed to be doing something else, something important--but that was drowned in the happiness he felt, the completeness. _

_The boy could not recall why he was supposed to be worried about danger, and where he was supposed to be going. Or why he had been frightened before--but he wasn't anymore, and he knew he was safe and together with...with... _

_Laughing and whooping, they chased each other across the ever-shifting land, everything but the joy and the speed forgotten--whisked away by the hot/cool wind, left behind on the sandy/grassy ground. _

_Trying to outdo the man, the boy pushed his swoop hard into a turn before a rough canyon wall--or was it a stand of dense trees? The swoop's repulsors whined and slipped, and the boy hit the handbrake, catching himself before he skidded into the stone/trees. Sliding to a spinning halt, throwing up sand/leaves, he tumbled off the swoop and onto the warm/soft ground. _

_He was not hurt; he was laughing, amused by his own blunder. He watched the other swoop pull high around a rock spire/big tree, looping around to come back for him. Still laughing, the boy sat up and waved, peering at the figure coming closer. _

_Somehow, he could not make out the figure's details; one moment it was a tall man in a dark tunic, and the next a huge black shadow in a billowing cloak--but mostly it was just a tall man, whose face he could not see clearly no matter how close he was, even when the man pulled up beside him. He knew, somehow, who the man was, and still something nagged at him--the man was supposed to be...gone...but since he was here that must be wrong. He was glad it was wrong. _

_The man brought his swoop to a gentle halt, grinning himself--it was probably time to go home to the lakehouse/farmstead, where she would be waiting with dinner and a loving smile... _

_Somehow he knew the boy was smiling, but he couldn't make out any details--he squinted, but the boy's figure remained...blurred to him, features obscured, and he didn't know why. All he could see was a smile that reminded him sharply of her. _

_Suddenly frustrated, he wanted to see the boy clearly. It was like trying to blink sand from his eyes--why couldn't he see? He reached out for the boy's shoulder, but somehow, no matter how he stepped forward, the boy remained just beyond his grasp. _

_Then the boy spoke, in a voice he heard but could not hear, bright with that too-familiar smile. _

_"Dad..." _

_The unspoken/spoken word grabbed at his heart and squeezed it, catching his breath with sharp claws as something clicked in his memory and his happiness turned to bittersweet, joyful agony. The boy--his **son**--was right in front of him, millimeters from his fingertips and almost within reach-- _

_--he cried out in pain/hope and leaped forward, trying to catch the shadow of what might have been that had suddenly become a ghost, a wisp of nothing that broke and scattered like mist in his hands--as the light and joy shattered to pieces all around him and left him with nothing but cold darkness--_

* * *

His shout echoed through the cockpit, reverberating from the viewscreens and bouncing back to him in harsh, mechanical echoes. His reflection was there in the instrument panels, lit by green and red from guages and indicators--unchanged as ever, shrouded in the unforgiving black mask.

His breath coming hard in his chest despite the respirator, Vader clenched his hands so tight they creaked, for a few scant moments caught in the raw agony and emotion that accompanied the dream.

A dream--that's all it was; a dream he'd not had in years. A wish and a plea by the long-buried part of his soul for the ones he had loved long ago; the wife and child that he had killed with his own two hands, that some part of him still longed for--the weak, frightened part of him that he denied existence within his true self.

He'd had this sort of dream before, years ago, though the details were always hazy. There was always a boy--though a few times, it was a girl, probably because he had never known if his child would have been male or female. There was always joy, contentment that he never found in the cold world he lived in now; there was never fear, or even purpose--just happiness and vivid life, until his consciousness began to recognize the discrepancies.

Invariably, the moment he realized the truth, everything was snatched away from him--crumbling to dust in his hands, reminding him ever more painfully of what he had destroyed. What his weak heart wished he had never harmed. What he longed for in moments like these, in the blurry instants just between asleep and awake, when he still remembered what it was like to _feel_.

And then, he remembered that such things were weakness, were useless. Such things had no place occupying the mind of a Sith Lord. They were the shattered hopes of a dead and forgotten man, not his own; he had no need for such emotion. His master had given him freedom from these things--freedom from despair and pain and fear...from joy and love and warmth...

Forcing such thoughts away, he once again found the empty place inside himself and stood there, working to lock down the walls between himself and the weaker, false emotions. The things he'd cared about then--the _people_ he'd cared about--had turned against him, stripping him of trust, humanity, and health. His old master had destroyed his body, just as surely as she had destroyed his heart. So he had destroyed them both.

_She betrayed me,_ he reminded himself, forcing away any slivers of old hope and grief. _He turned her against me--used her against me! He made her betray me. She deserved it!_

Then why, something wondered, had he heard her voice when nothing else could reach him--as he lay burning and dying in the pit, then living and suffering in his new master's hands. Somewhere in that blur of fire and black and pain, he had heard her--_"Anakin, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...Anakin, please, I **love** you..."_--as he was lost on the fiery edge of life and death.

As if she was still alive--as if she was right there, crying out to him through the flames...

_No!_ he shouted back, trying to drown it out. _She betrayed me! She deserved to die!_

_Did she really? Her **and** the child?_ that something said, in his own voice. _The child did nothing wrong. My child was innocent! And I killed them both! I tossed them aside without a second thought...!_

_She betrayed me. And I have no use for children._

With a push of darkness that would have flattened anyone around him had it manifested physically, Vader--in desperation he would never admit--reached for his cold empty place once more and forced away all the cluttered, unwanted emotions belonging to another man; that long-dead, unmourned fool. He shut the doors in his mind that led to those old places, as his master had taught him; he reached for anger and power and found it, took hold of it...hid within it...

When he raised his head again, he was in control--he was Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith; right hand of the Emperor, undefeated enemy of the Jedi, immovable force of Order in the galaxy. Pointless dreams forgotten, left behind like so many swirling bright eddies in hyperspace, he sat up straight in his flight seat and checked the chronometer, giving a tight smile in spite of himself.

Naboo was not far away, now. Soon, this matter would be settled once and for all.

* * *

True to her word, Princess Leia Organa didn't budge from the Alliance Command Center--also known as the Farmhouse--until the familiar silhouette of the _Millenium Falcon_ hove into view, coming in to a swift but tidy landing on the permacrete platform beyond the barn. Her few larger belongings already packed away in a crate on the last transport, she carried a utility duffel containing her necessities and a few changes of clothing as she hurried out to meet the old freighter's crew, General Rieekan, See-Threepio--muttering worriedly as usual--and a few remaining personell tagging behind her.

Glad to see them safely returned, she greeted Han Solo and Chewbacca pleasantly but briskly, quickly informing them of the situation. Han seemed rather startled they were leaving so soon--after his rather long-winded supply run, he'd been looking forward to a hot bath and some non-shipboard food--but Chewie, typically unrattled by the quick change, merely gave a Wookiee shrug and headed back into the _Falcon_ to start her up again. Threepio, anxious not to be left behind, followed the furry copilot into the freighter.

Han covered his concern over Luke's absence with his usual bravado, complaining vociferously over being left behind. Hiding her affectionate smile, Leia shooed the General and remaining personnel off to their transport and saw it into the air, before she herself followed Han aboard his ship to continue their discussion.

As they lifted off, lazily tailing the more sluggish Alliance transport, Han was far less worried than Leia about Luke's situation; as far as the smuggler was concerned, Luke was a more than capable pilot--alright, maybe even a bit better than himself, he grudgingly admitted at a pointed bark from Chewie--and from the looks of things it was a simple fly, retrieve, and blow-stuff-up mission. What could go wrong? And besides, they wouldn't know until the X-wings' transport met back up with their fleet group, so there was little they could do worrying themselves over it.

Even the usually-paranoid Threepio concurred that the chances of a disaster happening on Luke's mission was approximately eight thousand five hundred forty-seven to one. But he could be mistaken, he also admitted; Master Luke _did_ seem to have a strange effect on odds.

Attempting to relax, Leia tried to take the words of her companions to heart--tried to make herself stop fretting. Really, Han was right--Luke was a great pilot and it was a simple mission; she ought to have more faith in her friend.

Still, she couldn't stop the edge of fear and worry that followed her all the way to the Alliance's next meeting point. The dark foreboding deep in her heart had not faded--instead, it only grew stronger.

Somehow, a part of her remained certain that Luke was in trouble.

_To be continued..._


	7. Chapter 5

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 5**

Luke was pulled abruptly awake by Artoo's noisy squawking--informing him that they were nearly there and he had less than a minute to get his act together. Blinking gummy sleep from his eyes, he reached for the controls and checked the chronometer, surprised at how deeply he'd slept for so many hours. The ship was still shuddering along, but there was a new, rather noisy _ping_ developing somewhere behind him, and Artoo's terse message explained that they were going to have a rough ride any way they sliced it.

"Okay, okay, I got it," the young pilot grumbled, rubbing ineffectively at his eyes beneath the flight helmet with one hand while the other reached for the conrol lever. "Coming out of hyperspace in three...two...one..."

With an alarming hiss and rattle, the X-wing rocked violently as the bright blur of hyperspace vanished into simple night sky--a view of black and stars dominated by the smooth sphere of a planet ahead. The drop from lightspeed made Luke's stomach twist, causing him to worry that perhaps the acceleration compensator was failing as well; no time to dwell on it, though--with the re-ignition of the sublight engines, new alarms began to wail all over the board.

"Well, the S-foils are still open, the sensors are fried, the shields are dead, the comm's down, and there's no telling if the repulsors will come on. On top of that, I have no clue where to land," Luke listed off, holding tight to the flightstick as he guided the bucking X-wing toward Naboo. "Any bright ideas?"

In a worried-sounding trill, the astromech gave him a few course changes--which, Artoo explained, would at least bring them down closer to their intended destination.

"Thanks," Luke sighed, not knowing if that would do any good; it certainly wouldn't if they weren't in one piece by the time they touched down. "See if you can get anything to the shields--we're gonna need it when we hit atmosphere."

Which was coming all too soon--though the damaged X-wing was flying considerably slower than usual, both the ailing engines and the planet's gravitational fieldwere keeping them moving. There was less to worry about if Artoo could get the repulsorlifts working, but as things were, he was looking at a hard skid landing. If he went in too fast, the failing X-wing would burn up in the atmospheric friction or hit the ground like a meteorite. If he came too slowly, the space-faring fighter would drop like a stone, its wings not truly being aerodynamic enough for air-based flight--especially open like they were.

"Any news on the shields, Artoo?" he asked tersely, trying to control the angle of entry.

Artoo reported the deflectors at twenty-five percent--insufficient, really, but with a little work the droid had routed them to the front lower section, which would see the most heat. The repulsors were also chancy--going on and off randomly, victims of a short somewhere in the system.

"Okay..." With a deep breath, Luke closed his eyes and made his decision. "Turn the repulsors off completely. They're not doing us any good up here anyway. Put some shielding over your head, Artoo--we're going in hot."

The astromech beeped nervously and complied, redirecting a few meager deflectors to keep the atmospheric heat away from his dome. In the cockpit, Luke reached for a button rarely used--the heat shields that could slide over the X-wing's thin transparisteel canopy, to protect its pilot from intense temperatures and light. It was also completely opaque, and rendered the pilot sightless but for the scopes and instruments--which, in Luke's case, were quite dead. Nobody used the heat shields except in the most extreme circumstances; usually, by the time the situation warranted it, one was just prolonging the inevitable.

But Luke wasn't one to give up so quickly. He was flying blind, in a situation that would have had most pilots saying their final prayers, but he was somehow not as frightened as he'd imagined being. He _was_ afraid, and he was shaking with adrenaline--but he wasn't frozen, or terrified. He was..._focused_.

There was the telltale hiss against the hull that signaled the first touch of atmosphere around them. Artoo squealed briefly as the hiss rapidly became a roar, and the already-rattling X-wing began to shudder as if it would tear itself apart. Without the computer and the repulsorlifts, the only thing that could control the craft was the force of the main engines and careful use of the maneuvering thrusters. And in atmosphere--what many pilots called "soup"--the thrusters were hard-pressed to move the falling ship.

With no viewscreen to look through, Luke flew with his eyes closed, one hand controlling the flightstick and maneuvering thrusters, the other on the throttle lever--fingers moving lightly, touching one, then another key; another gentle pull to the stick, a nudge to the throttle, somehow keeping the X-wing in a straight line. Something like instinct was guiding him; something deep inside he hadn't words yet to explain.

The dying fighter would buck and rattle off in one direction, then another; each time, careful movements of the stick and precise touches to the throttle somehow pulled the X-wing back into alignment. It was actually a lot like maneuvering the ship into position against the old beacon--only a lot faster and a lot more dangerous. But he had that same feeling of _knowing_; it ran all through him--a reassuring _certainty_ that _this_ jet burn was right at _this_ moment, _that_ little control thrust at _that_ moment was correct.

Behind the cockpit, barely sheltered by the fading shields, Artoo made no sound; despite their situation, and despite their brief career together, he had utter faith in his master.

The little ship shuddered its way through the upper atmosphere, every kilometer of its flight growing rougher and rougher as the tremendous heat and friction attacked the outer hull, tearing at the split wings. From the outside, it was a flaming-hot silver needle falling out of control through the sky; from the inside, a rattling black box barely staying on its flight path.

A tremendous wrenching shriek jolted through the fighter, throwing it violently to its portside; jolted out of his strange concentration, eyes flying wide open, Luke clung to the stick as his X-wing began to spin wildly. Moments later, another metallic scream twisted the small craft into another spin vector, throwing his stomach into loops just as wild as his ship's. Quite frightened now, but still somehow calm, he threw aside all reason--and all conventional flight wisdom--and gave full power to the main sublights to compensate for the crazy spin.

With a pinging, coughing roar that slammed him back against his seat, the spin became an arc that soon straightened out--but without instrumentation he had no idea which way he was pointed. Trying to find that sense of certainty again, he closed his eyes and gently tilted the stick, sending the moaning fighter down and to the left.

_Ben...Force...whatever's out there,_ he thought, hoping his feelings were still leading him true. _Please let this be right!_

Trusting his gut, he backed off on the throttle until the fighter just began to try and twist again--a spin that even the maneuvering thrusters couldn't handle, given the forces of gravity and air working against them. So far, only the sheer power of the sublights kept him moving in a straight line.

But it was a straight line that was far too fast to land safely. At this rate, he'd come down like a falling star, and leave a crater the size of a gruntball field.

The roar began to dissipate as the X-wing fell into lower atmosphere, the friction and drag gradually slowing it down despite the engines. Luke kept the fighter on its course--and for some reason, something kept him from trying to withdraw the heat shields. Instead, he concentrated on what he could feel--closing his eyes once more, waiting for the critical moment.

The moment of truth--when he'd find out if the last few months of dead-on hunches and a lifetime of accurate premonitions and fortunate coincidences weren't just luck. When he'd know for sure if his instincts for piloting ran deeper than just inherited talent and practiced skill.

_Wait for it..._ he told himself, trying to steady his shaking hands. _Not yet. Almost...almost down...not yet..._

The feeling came--_now_ was right.

With a jerk, he cut power to the main engines and fired what was left of the reverse thrusters--at the same time, hitting the manual switch to restore the repulsorlifts. The X-wing jerked in midair, slamming him into his harness hard enough to force the air out of his lungs; the deadly plummet slowed suddenly, but did not stop. The repulsors whined sharply, caught and held, then died--then flickered on again, giving the fighter a strange stop-start like a stalling groundcar.

He cut the reverse thrusters and hoped the repulsors would hold; the ship coasted, fell, then coasted again, its flight path beginning to twist once more. He tried to compensate with the maneuvering thrusters, pulling the figher against the spin--but the repulsorlifts died for a final time and the X-wing flipped over.

The small fighter corkscrewed through the air for a brief second, all control lost--and with a thunderous roar, splashed down in a body of water with near the force of a missile.

The sudden loss of velocity from impact with the water threw Luke against both chair and flight harness with enough force that he saw stars. There was an ominous, high-pitched electronic hum--probably the last gasp of the acceleration compensator trying to save his life--before something burst loudly behind him, marking the end of any gravitational assistance. His momentum forced him once more against his harness straps, but with the thick cushion of water around his ship, it could move forward no more. The sensation of wild tumbling had become nothing more than an odd _drifting_.

Luke found himself panting as if he'd just run a marathon, hands trembling as he unclenched them from the stick. For a moment, he just stared into his blank canopy, astonished that he was still alive.

_Good skies, I made it!_ he thought in disbelief. _I don't believe it--I actually made it!_

A sudden cold thought made him pause. "Artoo? Artoo, answer me! Are you still back there?"

There was a long moment of silence...then another...and another. Luke glanced down at his display--but was dismayed to find his instruments completely blank. There wasn't a light left on the panel; the comm, along with the rest of his ship, was quite dead. He could only hope Artoo wasn't in the same shape.

And come to think of it, he wasn't much better himself--he might have survived his dubious landing, but his fighter was sinking into unknown waters, and with his ship dead, so was his life support.

_'Kid from desert world dies on ocean bottom,'_ he grumbled to himself, rubbing his eyes, unable to think past his landing. _That'll make a great obituary..._

Not to mention swimming was not his favorite pastime. He was not good at it, thanks to his desert upbringing; he'd barely passed the Alliance safety courses, and felt like a floundering ronto no matter what he did. He'd never been able to get over the vague feeling of terror at being immersed in large bodies of dark, seemingly bottomless water; it gave him near the same sense of loss and vertigo that one experienced while floating in open space.

As it turned out, he had less than a five-minute wait--during which he beat his head against a figurative wall and bemoaned his dead ship--before his situation changed. With a clang that nearly sent him leaping out of his chair--no good, thanks to the flight harness--his ship abruptly changed direction. Startled, he tried to open the heat shields and see what was happening, but those controls were as dead as the rest--his fighter continued moving backwards, and possibly upwards, at what might have been a good pace.

_Maybe I get to be eaten by a sea monster,_ he thought, in terrified humor, as he struggled to reach his blaster and a concussion grenade in the cockpit stow compartment. _At least it would beat suffocating on the ocean floor._

Well, if that was his destiny, he could give the thing a mean case of indigestion. Holding his weapons ready, he listened for any sign of what might be going on outside.

He wasn't disappointed; soon enough, he heard splashing water--the surface! Waves beat against his fighter's hull as it went along, and the harsh bobbing was beginning to do unpleasant things to his stomach; nearly as bad as his controlled freefall from space, only he had more time to think about it. Maybe he wasn't being eaten, after all--maybe it was some kind of rescue.

But who would be out in the water waiting for a ship to crash?

Finally, the forward--or backward, in his perception--movement seemed to stop. The X-wing rocked a bit, noises clunking against its hull as it shuddered, dragged, and bumped against something. Soon, there were softer thumps from outside--almost like...knocking.

_Someone's out there!_

Despite the situation, his heart leaped--Imperials, natives, or otherwise, people were easier to deal with than ocean bottoms. At least he had a chance for survival and escape, even if it was bad.

Unbuckling his flight harness, he reached for the emergency hatch release. Small charges broke the canopy locks and the heat shield bolts, allowing him to push the hatch upward. Blaster in one hand, canopy in the other, he heaved himself upright--

--and found himself face-to-face with a green-skinned, leathery, ducklike snout, surmounted by a pair of eyestalks.

Okay, not an Imperial then.

Luke blinked. The eyestalks blinked.

"Whatsa yousa doin', comin' down lika boomrocket an' landin' splatta on us?" a rough voice demanded--coming from the alien beak. "Yousa busten' up my bongo!"

A long arm flung itself out to point at the nearby water's edge--where a strange, organic-looking watercraft floated, a sizeable scrape in its starboard side.

Caught flat-footed, somewhat confused by the mangled Basic, Luke blinked again. "Oh...uh...sorry..."

"Don't bein' hoppinmad, Ruper," said a second, somewhat older-looking bluish creature, coming around the nose of the X-wing. "Mesa notta tinkin' hesa doin' it on meanto."

Anxious not to step on any toes, Luke nodded quickly. "Yeah! I didn't mean to land on your...uh, bongo. My ship broke, see? And I sort of...crashed."

"Muy muy busted, yup," agreed the older creature, surveying the damage. "Mesa seein' notta lotta ship left."

Gulping, Luke finally thought to look his fighter over--and found himself gaping in dismayed horror at the damage.

There wasn't much left of the X-wing's nose, just a blasted, melted slag that ended some two meters from his cockpit--goodbye, sensor package. The metallic shrieks he'd heard midair must have been the lower wings snapping off--one at its base, the other about a third of the way out, accounting for some of the craft's crazy spinning. The remaining wings were irreparably warped, the turbolaser tubes themselves melted away, and the body of the craft was blackened and bubbled from the heat.

It had to be a miracle he'd survived that.

Alarm hit him once again, and he dove out of the dead craft to look up at its scorched back. "Artoo! Artoo, answer me!"

There was a brief whirr, then a creaky, soft beep. Artoo's dome turned toward him--whole, thank the Force, and unmelted, but somewhat singed.

"Artoo, you okay?" Luke called up, relieved that the little astromech was still functioning somewhat.

A shaky whistle answered him, going upscale. It seemed positive.

"Yousa not comin' from dese parts, no?" the older creature asked, coming alongside the young pilot to examine the wrecked ship. "Yousa not...wit dem badEmpires?"

Luke shook his head, pulling off his flight helmet with a sigh. "No...no, I'm not."

Surprisingly, the creature's mouth split into a grin. "Goodies! Yousa bein' welcome, den. Notta ouched from crashin'?"

"Uh, no...I think I'm okay," Luke replied, quickly beginning to pick up the idiosyncrasies of their dialect. He glanced around at the other natives starting to gather around the fallen craft, and began to notice what he'd failed to see before; the shore he stood upon was next to a huge, clear lake--so large he couldn't see the other side. The trees were thick all around, sheltering what seemed to be a small settlement that set its feet on both land and sea--half in, and half out of the water. The buildings were both advanced and rustic, with metal, bone, and wood interwoven in their designs.

Wide-eyed, he turned back to his rescuers. "I'm sorry to seem rude, but...who, and what, are you?"

The older creature grinned again. "Mesa call' Ribber, an' disa my boy Ruper. Wesa bein' Gungans, an' disa planet Naboo."

"Oh." Still rather amazed, he gazed around at the gathered Gungans, feeling the weight of many eyes and whispers. Apparently, visitors weren't common to this little village. "I guess I'm kinda lost...are there any human settlements around here? I'm...sort of looking for someone."

Ribber shook his head. "Notta any Naboo 'roun dese parts. Wesa come here for secret, hidin' from badEmpires. Deysa not likin' Gungans."

"I see." Typical Imperial oppression--aliens used, abused, or outright murdered simply for being nonhumans. "Then could you point me in the right direction? I don't want to make trouble here, so I'll just--"

A commotion amongst the throng of observers grabbed everyone's attention, as a salmon-orange and white Gungan pushed his way through the crowd, stumbling in his hurry. He seemed a bit older than Ribber--his colors faded, his amphibious skin worn and creased with faint wrinkles. But his eyes were bright and his grin was enormous, and he was babbling at top speed.

"--knews it! Mesa knews it! Ani yousa back! Yousa not dead! Mesa knews it!" Without pausing--or stopping for air--the Gungan threw his arms around Luke in a bone-crushing hug. "Mesa waiten lotta years an' never believin' yousa dead! Mesa knowin' yousa comen back someday, notten stoppin' Ani! Mesa missen you so much...!"

The Gungan trailed off, pulling back as if realizing something. Startled, Luke had gone rigid when the Gungan embraced him, too shocked to even lift his blaster--but now he stared up at the suddenly-confused alien with wide eyes and short breath.

"Oi...yousa not Ani." Blinking puzzledly, the old Gungan released him and took a step back. "Yousa muy muy too short to be Ani...but yousa lookin' too lotta like him..."

"Who's...Ani?" Luke croaked, thrown for a loop--but with a strange, gnawing suspicion in his gut.

"Oh...hesa bein' Aniken Skywalkur," the Gungan replied, rather sadly. "Hesa good friend o'my, muy long time ago. Mesa sorry..."

"Wait, don't go!" Suddenly desperate, Luke grabbed the Gungan's arm before he could turn away. "You--you knew my father?"

The Gungan stumbled, stopping in his tracks. "Fadder? Yousa jus' say _fadder?_" The creature's eyestalks nearly popped out of his face, and he stared at Luke as if seeing a miracle. "Yousa..._Ani's boy?_"

This time, Luke didn't stiffen nearly as much when the Gungan embraced him joyfully again.

* * *

Darth Vader was wide awake and in an impatient mood when he finally came out of hyperspace over the planet Naboo. What with seeing to his fleet's redeployment, giving the thick-headed Admiral Ozzel a few last-minute, explicit instructions, and getting his personal ship fueled and prepared, he was a good hour behind the Rebel pilot. Such delays grated on him--not only did it signal ineptitude and inefficiency among his men, it also put him at a disadvantage to his prey. An hour was a lot of time, really; who knows where the pilot might be by now?

There was one thing he was certain of, though--the Rebel would end up at the address posted in the message from the fake Anakin Skywalker. All he had to do was wait there. And hopefully avoid whatever goons the Emperor had sent.

His comm unit crackled briefly. "This is Naboo Imperial Flight Control. We have you on our screen now; please confirm your transponder signal."

Vader sighed irritably; he had only used his shuttle's general transponder, which would tell them that he was a high-ranked, high-priority Imperial guest--but who, precisely, they would not know until he acknowledged them. A waste of time, in his opinion--but if he ignored or countermanded them and flew directly to his destination, it would arouse more suspicion than if he went through normal channels.

"This is Darth Vader," he growled tersely. "Prepare for my arrival."

The flight controller was instantly overwhelmed. "Ah! Yes m'Lord! Immediately! My apologies, sir!"

"I have urgent business outside the capital," he added, no patience in his tone. "I want a transport ready."

There was a second's hesitation--enough to make Vader scowl. "Er, yes, m'Lord...I'll see what can be made available...as soon as possible. You are cleared for landing in the Theed Palace hangar. A garrison representative will meet you, m'Lord."

Without bothering to reply, Vader switched off the comm. Something was up down there...usually his requests were met with instant compliance, not the hesitation he'd clearly heard and sensed. He did not enjoy it when men attempted to deceive him.

Still frowning, Vader guided his shuttle through the lower atmosphere as he passed within sight of Theed. The grand old city still stood proudly atop the cliffs and waterfalls, the ancient domes and sweeping architecture still strong and polished. It was much as he remembered it--though the skyline was now dominated by the Emperor's flags, and the squared-off, grayish, misfit profile of the Imperial garrison that had been built into and around Theed Palace when the elected monarchy and governing bodies were disbanded. The dull permacrete structures were quite out-of-place amongst the beautiful Naboo buildings.

With its rulers banished from the capital and the Imperial garrison established, Naboo had become tantamount to an Imperial resort world. Since it was the Emperor's place of birth, it had gained galactic fame as a must-see destination for rich Imperial supporters. It hosted the major celebration of the Emperor's birthday every year, and a good many Governors, Grand Moffs, and Admirals came to spend holidays basking in the beautiful planet's calm atmosphere, green expanses, and breathtaking waterfalls. The Emperor himself came here to relax, and took great pleasure in staying in the expansive Palace suites of the Naboo royalty he had deposed.

Now that he was Emperor--as Palpatine often reminded the Naboo, cackling--his home planet needed no other rulers save his own august self.

But it was one of the few places in Imperial territory that had not fallen prey to industrialization, strip-mining, and conscription orders--thanks in large part to Darth Vader's influence. For a sentimental reason he could not believe he clung to, he refused to see Naboo--one of the only places in the galaxy that held pleasant memories, despite his efforts at erasing such attachments--transformed into another of the Empire's production factories. Bad enough his master insisted on eliminating the Gungans and removing the planet's traditional ruling bodies.

So Naboo had been reduced to a picturesque picnic spot for Imperial fluffballs. He firmly told himself that he did not really care; the planet meant little to him any more. He had only lobbied for it years ago, when he was still weakened by another life's memories.

The wide-open bay of the Theed Palace hangar loomed before him. It was easy enough to steer his shuttle inside; it was much larger than an N-1, but it was a quick, responsive craft. Nowhere near as bulky or sluggish as a _Lambda_­-class shuttle, his personal transport was a faster, smaller version of the crew transport, with sleeker folding wings and a much shorter, narrower dorsal vane. It was also _much_ more well-armed--and armored. He had commissioned the design himself, and it included all his necessities in its aft living quarters. It was his favored method of traveling around the galaxy by himself, especially when he wished to get away from bureaucratic Imperial idiots and incompetent crewers--especially morons like Ozzel.

No matter how many years had passed, Vader was still a consummate pilot, and guided his ship to a smooth, rapid landing in the space that had been cleared for him. Powering down the engines, he set his shuttle on standby and hefted himself from the pilot's chair, heading for the hatch.

Standing at the top of the ramp, he glanced around at the near-empty hangar; he had not been in this place in decades, but little had changed. Where once the proud yellow-and-chrome N-1 Starfighters had stood, TIE fighters waited patiently in their racks; his own shuttle sat where the Naboo Royal Starship used to make berth. But besides the differing ships and the stormtroopers replacing Naboo Royal Guards, the old hangar was the same as it had been so many years ago.

When a little boy hid in a starfighter cockpit, while the Queen and two Jedi went on to battle...

Shoving his pointless musings aside, Vader took a step down the ramp, heading for the nervous-looking representative that awaited him.

_"Stay in that cockpit."_

The voice made him stop in his tracks, startled for a single moment--until he realized he'd imagined it. The man who'd spoken those words to him had died over thirty years ago, defeated by one of his Sith predecessors. His mind was trying to play tricks on him.

"Greetings, Lord Vader," said the nervous representative, as he finished his descent of the ramp. "I'm Lieutenant Moors, head of Imperial Visitations here on Naboo. How may we be of service to you?"

"You can start by not wasting my time," Vader replied succinctly, striding past the man, making the officer scurry to keep up with him. "I require nothing more than quick transportation and no interference. You will prepare a fast landspeeder at once."

"Er, yes..." Increasingly nervous, Moors nodded. "I'm sorry--I'll have to speak to my superiors about this...but...if you'll just follow me..."

With obvious jitters, the pale Lieutenant Moors led him toward the personnel offices--away from where he knew the speeder berths were. Sighing with irritation, Vader played along; already, he knew someone was delaying him. His requests were not usually met with such...hesitance. He smelled Imperial Special Ops--they were under his master's direct control, and were for the most part the only ones who dared even look him in the eye.

It was probably best to meet with whoever was in charge of this little farce. That way, he'd get things out in the open and make certain his search suffered no interference. Darth Vader had very..._permanent_ ways of ensuring that.

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 6

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 6**

"I see," said the Emperor, his voice hissing from the faceless darkness within his holographic cowl. "Thank you, my dear Admiral, for bringing this to my attention."

Admiral Ozzel bowed even lower, hiding his pompous smirk. "My highest duty and pleasure is to serve you, your Highness. I was loathe to report this to you without the honored Lord Vader's knowledge, but I felt it was most necessary since it was contrary to your esteemed words of command."

The oily smile was obvious in the Emperor's tone. "Your duty and _pleasure_ I'm sure, Admiral. As you have the Empire's best interests at heart."

"And nothing else, my Lord Emperor," Ozzel agreed, his voice just as smooth. "Have you any further instructions for the First Fleet, your Highness?"

"No, my dear Admiral," the Emperor replied. "Continue on with your search--I would still see the Rebel encampments wiped out. I will..._deal_ with Lord Vader myself."

"Yes, my Lord Emperor."

"And make sure to thoroughly interrogate your captive," Palpatine went on, a toothy grin evident in his voice. "He was involved with the...incident, and should know a great deal about what the Rebels are up to. Learn what the purpose was for their interference with the transmitter beacon, and if it had anything to do with that unusual flagged message. Report this information to me as soon as you have it, Admiral."

Ozzel bowed low once again. "As you command, your Highness."

The Emperor gave a vague wave of blessing, before the hypercomm blinked out.

Pleased with himself, Ozzel rose and made to leave the officers' ready room. Their prisoner waited in the medical bay under guard, ripe for interrogation; the Rebel wasn't in good shape, missing a few pieces and badly burned, but the medical droids had patched him up with machinery and drugs. He would not live long, but that didn't matter--he only had to survive long enough to answer questions.

Captain Piett swung into step beside him as he exited the ready room door. "Admiral?"

"Captain." Ozzel barely paused. "The Emperor wishes us to continue our search. He will see to Lord Vader."

"Sir...I'm not sure that speaking to the Emperor was a wise decision," Piett suggested quietly, frowning. "It can't be right; Lord Vader left instructions that we were not to contact anyone until he returned."

Ozzel stopped in the middle of the corridor to glare at his subordinate. "And if Lord Vader directly disobeys the Emperor's orders to capture the transmitter beacon and hunt down the Rebels--what then? Are we simply to obey him to the detriment of the Empire?"

"'Detriment of the Empire?'" Piett asked incredulously. "Lord Vader? Sir, you must be joking. Lord Vader has been the Emperor's most staunch supporter from day one! He would not simply turn his back on the Empire. He must have good reason for the command decisions he made."

"So you'd prefer to obey Lord Vader over the Emperor?" Ozzel all but growled, leaning close. "You'd rather that overbearing, sadistic sorceror remain in control of this ship and this fleet? You'd rather die for some imagined failure than live under a reasonable command?"

"I--I--no, sir...but..." Nearly pressed against the wall, Piett gulped. "Admiral...what you're saying--that...that has to be treason, sir. Lord Vader is still in command of this ship, whether or not he's--"

Ozzel snorted, turning away. "One can only commit treason against the Empire. Lord Vader is not the Empire--Emperor Palpatine _is_. Think carefully, Captain. And carry out your duty."

Left behind in the stark, empty corridor, Piett stared after the Admiral in disbelief and dismay.

* * *

Unaware of the drama taking place aboard the _Executor_, Darth Vader stared with folded arms down at the pale-faced, slightly pudgy man behind the desk in front of him. "Tell me again," he rumbled, "_without_ the misdirection and double-talk, why an entire Imperial garrison cannot provide me with one landspeeder."

"E-er, my Lord," the pasty man stammered, all but sinking into his chair in terror. "I-I'm terribly sorry--" And he was scared enough to mean it, too. "--b-but we've had some d-d-delays...there w-was an unauthorized splashdown landing n-not far from..."

Fed up, Vader made a short gesture, stopping the man's words with a sharp but precise squeeze on his neck. "Consider your answer _very carefully_, Major Chade. I have no patience left for this."

Chade gurgled, nodding frantically, gasping when Vader released him. Clutching his throat, the pudgy man stared up in wordless fear, his mouth working for an answer.

"Lord Vader," said a new voice, from the doorway. "There's no need to intimidate Major Chade, sir. He's under orders, and knows nothing."

Scowling behind his mask, Vader turned to regard the much leaner, fit-looking officer entering the room. "Imperial Special Ops," he sneered, irritated that they had the temerity to oppose him. "I suppose you're here to see about the impostor."

"Those were my orders, my Lord. I'm Commander Telm, officer in charge of this operation, sir." The Special Ops agent's eyes remained almost as masked as Vader's own, though his emotions betrayed his tension. He knew what he was getting into. "And according to the Emperor's orders, sir, I must ask you to cease your activities on this planet--"

Vader snarled. "You _dare--!_"

"--at least until we've inspected the site. When _our_ orders are carried out, my Lord, you may peruse the area as you please."

"I will not sit here while your thugs meddle in things you cannot comprehend!" the Sith Lord thundered. "Get out of my way!"

Telm paled visibly, but did not budge. "I have my orders from the Emperor himself, Lord Vader! You are not to approach the target site until we've cleared it--"

"_Cleared_ it?" Vader growled, his voice gone soft and dangerous. "You mean, after you've wiped out everything that might mean anything."

Caught, Telm's mouth worked and his hand clutched at his firearm. "Sir, it's too late--my men are encircling the site. Just--"

Inexplicably, Vader saw red--and acted before he realized what he was doing; a clenched fist saw Commander Telm hoisted clean off his feet by an invisible noose. "You _dare_ set foot in that house--!" he roared, before catching himself. For an instant, he floundered--then, focusing, he set hard eyes on the gasping, choking commander hanging in midair before him. He had no time to waste, now.

Telm's death was quite brief--which, in comparison to the long line of choking deaths by Lord Vader, was a mercy. There was only a wet, sickening crunch, and a limp corpse fell to the floor. Ignoring the hyperventilating Major Chade, the Sith Lord stalked out the office door, heading for the speeder bays.

The one ensign who tried to stop him as he strode down the hall also met with a quick end, crushed like ripe fruit against a wall. After that, everyone stayed out of his way.

* * *

Luke was a bit bemused by all the attention, but once the Gungans declared him welcome, they were more than happy to help him on his way. His guide--the old Gungan, named Jar Jar Binks, who had mistaken him for his father--saw to getting some transportation to his intended destination. Apparently, Binks knew where the address was, and they were in fact not far at all from the place. While the ride was being arragned, Luke set about getting a few of his things out of the charred X-wing--necessitating several helping hands and a few crowbars--so that he could change into something a little less conspicuous than an Alliance uniform.

Luckily, he had some extra clothes, rations, and a short-range emergency comm in his stow compartments; all things considered, he'd come out alright--and the natives were friendly. One of them offered the use of his hut for Luke to change into what civilian clothing he'd brought--a slightly scruffy old outfit only vaguely reminiscent of his Tatooine garb, but in shades of brown rather than white. He might look like a pauper, but at least he wouldn't be pegged on sight as a Rebel pilot, if this planet was as infested with Imperials as he was informed.

The transportation that was acquired turned out to be a hovering sled pulled by a bipedal, slightly-birdlike scaly creature--a kaadu, Binks pointed out. The sled itself was little more than a metal-framed wooden box with a repulsorlift engine tacked on; it had no thrusters and no controls, necessitating the use of the kaadu. Luke helped his guide lift Artoo into the back of the sled, then hopped up next to the Gungan in the front.

"Are you sure it's not very far?" Luke asked as Binks sent the kaadu into a surprisingly fast trot.

"Not far," Jar Jar nodded to him with a grin. "Wesa livin' here tanks ta dem hissen whatta ownen' dese parts. Dem badEmpires, dey no likin' Gungans much. Wesa tink prolly wesa only Gungans left, since dat Palpy say kill 'em all of ussen. Dissa secret place."

Luke's brows went up. "Someone helped you hide here?"

"Uh-huh! Dem nice folks, dey givin' mesa peoples a place to be livin'." Binks chattered on cheerfully, despite the sadness of his tale. "'Specially for my. Mesa da Gungan Wepesennatib in Senate muy wayback, so dat Palpy bery _bery_ not likin' my. Mesa not votin' for 'im, so mesa almost not makin' offa Corassant alive!" At last, the Gungan frowned. "Some grateful. Wasa mesa speechin' da Senate whatsa made him boss! Peh. Hesa tricken' my to doin' it anyhows."

Rather awed at the depth of history to this seemingly simple creature, Luke found himself absorbed despite the pigdin language and rambling narrative. Jar Jar Binks was far more than just some local refugee; he'd had a hand in the shift of the Empire itself. "So, uh, Mister Binks?" he chanced, hoping not to sound rude. "How did you know my father?"

"Oi, boyo, yousa be callin' mesa Jar Jar, okieday?" the Gungan corrected him good-naturedly. "Mesa knowen' Ani since bery long time ago. Firs' time mesa seein' him, hesa itty bitty kiddo, workin' dis shop on Tatooney."

"Tatooine?" Luke guessed.

"Dat's what my said. Dat Ani--hesa workin' da shop, an' racin' inna maxi big podwaces. Hesa itty bitty kiddo back den, but hesa bombad pilot! Hesa win dat race lika nuttin' quicker! Ooy muy, hesa savin' alla wesa backbums winnin' dat race..."

Jar Jar Binks prattled on as the kaadu ran, happily regaling his passenger with his rambling tales, babbling about everything and nothing, from quirky little anecdotes about Senatorial proceedings to the few brief, fond memories of Anakin Skywalker--the wise little boy and the powerful young Jedi learner.

Luke listened raptly despite himself, absorbed in the retelling of a world he could only dream about--a world without opression, fear, and persecution; a world of puzzling politics and baffling beaurocracy and brave heroes who somehow prevailed against impossible odds. It was very different from the world he knew--both the simple life of a Tatooine farmboy and the secretive, on-the-run existence of a Rebel. The Alliance had no heroes; they had been fighting an uphill battle for nearly twenty years, losing ground with every step.

The defeat of the Death Star was the first major, meaningful victory the Rebel Alliance had ever seen.

The kaadu's speed was impressive, and the beast seemed tireless. Jar Jar guided the little company through the thick, marshy forest on some invisible path; the Gungan apparently knew exactly where he was going--no matter how much talking he was doing--but Luke still saw no signs of civilization. Occasionally an interesting bit of flora or fauna was pointed out, amidst the constant storytelling, but Binks kept the kaadu at a ground-eating pace.

Until, at last, they broke from the woods at the top of a hill, and Jar Jar at last reined the kaadu to a halt.

"See? Dere it is!" the Gungan reported happily, pointing out toward the lakeshore beyond the emerald green prairie ahead. "Yousa seein' dat muy purdy house dere? Dat's it!"

Shading his eyes against the afternoon sun, Luke peered along the distant shore, spotting the ivy-crawled, sprawling, old-style stone architecture of a large, beautiful house on an island overlooking the lake. "That's the one," he breathed, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. _If he's alive...he'll be there,_ his mind sang in overbearing excitement. _That's where the message said to go--that's where my father is waiting!_

"Wesa hurry on down dere, Lukie," Jar Jar chuckled, picking up on the youth's excitement. "Noworries, boyo--itta not runnen away on us."

With a slap of the reins, the kaadu was in motion again--with Luke sitting up over the front of the sled, every beat of his heart pulling him onward, heady with anticipation.

* * *

As it turned out, the grand old lakehouse was still and quiet. They left the kaadu and sled parked in the shady drive, with Artoo cheeping grumpily in the back of it; Jar Jar and Luke went on ahead to the front door, up the spacious stairs. The grand structure looked ancient and peaceful, but it and the island bore marks here and there of Imperial hands--like gray scars stitched into the warm stone.

"No lookin' like deysa home," the Gungan commented, after Luke had knocked ineffectively at the door a couple times. "Dey folks notta here alla time dough--deysa livin' inna billage off dattaways." A vague wave indicated a southward direction.

"But...someone _has_ to be here," Luke mumbled half to himself, crushed with disappointment that his father was not waiting here with open arms. "Someone sent me a message."

"Message?" Jar Jar blinked. "Whosa senden yousa message?"

"It _said_ it was from Anakin Skywalker..."

"Ani? From Ani?" Immediately, Binks lit up again. "Ani's here?"

Luke offered him a half-hopeful, half-worried smile. "I hope so."

With Artoo rocking around in the back of the hover sled, the kaadu was spooking, so Jar Jar trotted down the steps to calm the animal. Pensive, Luke headed toward the side of the house, trying to find a window low enough to peer through. There were no security systems around--no cameras, no autoresponse at the door, not even a droid caretaker. The place was all but rustic; beautiful, but an ideal spot to seriously get away from it all.

Hoisting himself on tiptoe, cursing as always his lack of height, Luke managed to get his nose over a windowsill and peek inside. It was dark, and most of the windowshades were closed, but he could make out what looked like a laundry area. It seemed grayish and dusty, as if it hadn't been used in a while.

As he scuffed his way dejectedly back toward the front, he realized that there were voices coming from the driveway. Alerted, he picked up his pace, his countenance brightening once more at the thought of success.

"...an' ooy muy, has my gotta suprisie for yousa!" he heard Jar Jar saying excitedly. "Hesa justa droppin' outta da sky on ussen!"

"I haven't seen you this happy in years, Jar Jar dear," said a woman with a mellow, amused voice.

"Mesa not _been_ dis happy in years! Jus' yousa wait--yousa see!" the Gungan laughed in reply--then raised his voice. "Lukie! Oi, Lukie, commen back here--oh." Jar Jar grinned at the youth as he came around the corner of the house. "Mesa found 'em!"

Luke approached steadily but cautiously; beside the Gungan were two women--one an elderly lady with still-stately features, the other middle-aged with a friendly, somehow familiar face and worry lines around her eyes. A landspeeder was parked in the drive across from the kaadu sled, indicating that the two women had only just arrived. Freed from the sled, Artoo honked welcomingly.

Both women watched Luke as he came near--but the elder was staring at him fixedly, her eyes growing wider the closer he got. Suddenly nervous under the scrutiny, he stopped at a respectful distance and waited for an introduction; his Gungan companion was grinning fit to burst.

"Well, hello there," said the younger of the two. "I'm Sola Naberrie, and this is my mother, Jobal. And you must be the one Jar Jar is so excited about."

Her voice as warm and friendly, making him smile. "I guess," he replied, with a half-shrug; the older woman's stare was making him a little antsy. "I'm sorry to show up unexpectedly...I didn't really have a chance to call ahead. I'm Luke Skywalker--um, Anakin Skywalker was my father. I don't know if you might have known him or if he's...here..."

The elder woman, Jobal, suddenly gasped aloud, her hand flying to cover her mouth. She nearly collapsed where she stood, the quick action of her daughter saving her balance--but Sola was almost as shocked as her mother, and both of them stared at him as if they'd never seen something so impossible.

Luke offered a hand to the elder woman, hoping he hadn't inadvertently said something wrong. "Are you alright? I'm sorry--I didn't mean to..."

Jobal's eyes were brimming with tears, and she reached out to him with trembling hands, worn fingers brushing his cheeks, cupping his face. Luke was startled, but he didn't draw back; something in her eyes bespoke both disbelief and welcome. "Oh...oh dear boy...it can't be...!" she whispered, her voice breaking. "You're...my Padme's baby...?"

His eyes huge in his face, Luke couldn't have spoken if he'd wanted to--his throat was frozen by shock and his heart was trying to pound its way free of his rib cage. Beside him, Sola was suddenly clutching his arm as if he would disappear, while Jar Jar continued to grin. "See? Mesa tellen yousa be surprised!"

Jobal at last began to smile through her tears. "Thank you, Jar Jar--oh, thank you!"

"We thought you were dead," Sola stated quietly, meeting Luke's confused and stunned gaze. "When my sister died, the reports said her child died with her."

"Your...sister...?" Gulping, Luke stared at her. "You're...my...?"

Sola blinked at him. "You didn't know? Didn't anyone ever tell you your mother's family is here on Naboo?"

"No..." Suddenly ashamed, Luke studied his boots. "I didn't even know...her name."

"Oh, you poor thing!" Jobal all but sobbed, embracing him. "But you're here now--you're here now..."

"Easy, Mother," Sola said gently, patting Jobal's arm as the older woman drew back. "Give him some space--he looks like he's about to fall right over."

"I'm sorry..." Shaking her head, Jobal wiped ineffectively at her eyes. "I'm usually never this emotional! I just can't believe Padme's boy is alive...thank you, Jar Jar."

"Isa no problemo," the Gungan replied, beaming. "Mesa so happy too--mesa muy surprise jus' like yousa!"

Steadying her mother with a hand on her elbow, Sola smiled. "I think we all need to go inside and sit down. There's so much to talk about! The house is pretty empty, but I'm sure there's some tea in a cupboard somewhere. We don't live here, but we do come up about once a month or so and check on the place."

Still somewhat in shock, Luke nodded dumbly, following the pair to the stairs. Behind him, Jar Jar and Artoo brought up the rear, the Gungan still smiling as though it was somebody's birthday.

The inside of the house was dusty and unlived-in, but expansive; despite the disuse, it showed evidence of having been a grand, warm place in its heyday. Jobal seated herself in the parlor room, on a velvet couch near a dark fireplace, while Sola bustled onward, probably to the kitchen. Luke sat hesitantly in an armchair across from the elder woman, as Jar Jar plunked himself down on the hearthrug. Artoo rolled toward a computer console in the far wall.

"Luke..." Jobal spoke softly, instantly garnering the youth's attention. "Where have you been all this time? If you didn't...pass with your mother, what happened to you?"

Nervous, Luke shrugged. "Honestly...I don't really know anything about what happened back then. I've just...lived on Tatooine all my life, with my aunt and uncle--my father's stepbrother and his wife. I don't know how I ended up there..."

"Someone must've brought you there," Jobal stated, a prim frown gracing her features. "Whoever it was, they deceived us as well--everyone was told that both Padme and her child died. If we had known you were alive, we would certainly have petitioned to adopt you. From what my Padme told me, Tatooine is...not the most safe or comfortable place to live."

"I dunno," Luke mumbled, shrugging again. "It wasn't bad. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru raised me like I was theirs...they were always kind, and they loved me..." Thoughts of home brought with them memories of his guardians' cruel deaths, and the Empire that had murdered them.

"I'm sure they did, dear," Jobal answered him with a kind smile. "You seem to have turned out very well. I'm sure they're very good people--I'd love to meet them someday."

Luke swallowed hard. "They died. The Empire...killed them."

"Oi no..." Jar Jar mumbled.

Jobal covered her mouth briefly. "Oh, I'm so sorry! You poor boy...you've been through a lot, haven't you?"

He shrugged again--he seemed to be doing a lot of shrugging; he was largely uncertain of what to say. What _did_ one say to long-lost grandmothers? He'd never _had_ a grandmother before; he wasn't sure.

"We're in luck! I found the tea, and the power's still on!" Sola Naberrie swept back into the room with a tray and teapot, setting her burden on the low table and setting out the cups. "Mother's got a point, though--I do wish we'd known about you, Luke." She glanced up at him as she poured the tea. "We didn't know anything about my sister's marriage, or her child, until shortly before she died. She called us in an awful hurry one evening--she was on a ship and headed into danger; we tried to convince her not to go, but she wouldn't listen. She told us she'd secretly married that young Jedi of hers, and she was pregnant--and something had happened to Anakin, so she was going to him, trying to help him...and then..."

"And it was barely a few days later we were told she was dead," Jobal finished, as her daughter's voice broke. "We were hardly even able to see her body, they buried her so quickly. And poor Anakin was gone as well--killed in the purges, as far as we know..."

"But Lukie sayen hesa gotta message from Ani," Jar Jar interjected, giving the Gungan equivalent of a curiously raised eyebrow. "Dat why hesa comin' here."

"Yeah," Luke agreed, brightening. "He might still be alive. I got a message from him that said to come here--this is where the message came from, too--"

"But that's impossible," Sola informed him, confused. "As far as I know, no one's come up here. A few Imperial flunkies used to use it as a vacation house, but since it's so remote it lost popularity--no one's stayed here for years. And it's always locked up..."

"He could be staying here in secret," Luke suggested hopefully. "It's not like he'd want to broadcast his presence--the Empire is pretty sour about Jedi."

From his corner at the computer panel, Artoo whistled loudly, interjecting a string of beeps that no one could make any sense of. When the organic beings in the room merely stared at him, the astromech rotated his dome and honked firmly at them.

"What is it, Artoo?" Curious, Luke got up and headed to the droid's side, peering at the computer monitor. The droid displayed a brief translation--he'd found the source of the previous message here at this comm unit. The sender had stood in this very room.

And there was another message stored here as well.

"Another message from my father?" Luke demanded excitedly, grabbing the attention of every being in the room. "Bring it up, Artoo! What's it say?"

Artoo beeped, complying. After a moment, the simple text message scrolled up on the screen, coded from the Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker.

"'Welcome,'" Luke read aloud, for the benefit of all. "'If you have come, there is still hope. Listen well: A door that is hidden must be unlocked. Your life is the key. Don't lose it. Love still exists.'" Blinking in puzzlement, Luke stood up straight again. "Then there's some more coordinates--looks like another planet and an address. That's all there is. What's all that supposed to mean?"

"It sounds like a riddle to me," Sola offered thoughtfully. "Maybe Anakin's trying to tell us something without being obvious about it--you know, to keep the Empire from figuring it out."

Luke shrugged. "Whatever it is, it's got me stumped."

"It seems clear that whoever sent the message doesn't want you harmed," Jobal suggested. "Since your life is something that must not be lost. That's certain."

"You think he's moved on already?" Sola asked. "That would explain the additional coordinates."

"Yeah--maybe he's waiting there!" Luke realized, excited once more. "He left a message here in a more safe place, so I could follow him! Now all I have to do is find a way off this planet..."

"It's a shame for you to go so soon, dear..." Jobal smiled sadly. "But it's probably not safe for you to stay...so we'll help you in any way we can."

"Mesa helpin' too," Jar Jar offered.

"My husband might be able to get you transport," Sola added. "It'll be tight, but I'm sure we can do it."

"Thanks...I don't want to be any trouble, but..." Luke smiled earnestly, glad to have met all of them. "I'm very grateful. This means a lot to me. If there's any chance I can find him..."

"I very much doubt that, young one."

The deep, harsh voice filled the room like the thunder of a waterfall, shocking them all to their feet--Luke most of all, since he'd gotten no _danger_ warning whatsoever despite the identity of the intruder. Jobal Naberrie nearly fell at the sight of the interloper, leaning heavily into her daughter's embrace for support. Jar Jar yelped and scrambled back until he hit the wall, babbling in petrified terror; Artoo squawked loudly in alarm.

But Luke was stepping forward, already drawing his blaster, a snarl on his face as he fixed his glare on the huge dark figure that stood in the doorway. "_You!_" he shouted, taking aim. "You killed Ben--you killed them all--!"

Before he could pull the trigger, the blaster was ripped from his hand and flung across the room by a gesture from the black-robed man in the door. Not pausing for a moment, Luke went for his backup weapon--the lightsaber his father had left him. But he hadn't even gotten it securely in his grip before a second blast of invisible, intangible power knocked him off his feet and sent his saber spinning across the floor.

"You are no Jedi, boy," rumbled Darth Vader evenly, having not even moved from his place in the doorway. "You have a long way to go before you can dream of challenging me."

Luke scrambled back to his feet, enraged but helpless, stepping forward to shield his aunt and grandmother with his own body. The evil Sith Lord who killed Ben, who killed his father, who killed his friends, who killed his family on Tatooine, who represented all the cruelty and opression of the Empire--that very man stood before him now, and he was powerless to do anything. It was like his nightmares, and worse; the weakness and uselessness he felt infuriated him even more.

"I've found you at last, little Rebel," the dark lord growled, staring at him fixedly through that frightening, skull-like black mask. No one moved--no one even breathed; there was no sound but the hissing of Vader's respirator.

That was until the small, round concussion grenade crashed in through the curtained window and rolled to a stop at their feet, beeping ominously.

_To be continued..._


	9. Chapter 7

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 7**

"Wrong, something is," said a voice like rough swamp treebark, soft into the evening. "Too close they are."

"What is Luke doing anywhere near Naboo?" wondered a second voice, gentle and etherial as the wind, but dark with worry. "For that matter, what are _both_ of them doing there?"

"Dangerous this is," said the first. "Foolish it was, whoever called them there."

"There are clouds everywhere I look, Master Yoda," the second whispered. "Who would have done this? Who could know? I fear...Luke may be in terrible peril."

Tired eyes gazed up through swamp fog, as though seeing far beyond the stars. "In all paths, danger there is. Bring him to Darkness, if knows the boy he does. Kill him he might, if recognizes the boy he does not. Destroy him he may, regardless. On a saber's edge, all balances now..."

* * *

"_What?_"

Wedge Antilles' flinch was obvious, even over the ready room holoscreen. But then, the accusation and loss in Princess Leia's tone was enough to make anyone feel guilty, no matter how involved they were "I-I'm sorry, ma'am--really, I can't say it enough," the Rogue pilot explained. "But he gave me orders--he wanted me to come back and warn the Alliance."

"Warn us?" Leia breathed in disbelief, still trying to process the news. "Warn us that he may be _dead_ or _captured?_ Burning skies, I _told_ him this was a bad idea...!"

"Hey, take it easy, Your Worship," Han cautioned from his chair. They were aboard one of the Alliance cruisers, with which the Falcon had docked to drop off the Princess. Leia sat across from them, staring into the holoscreen at the apologetic Wedge. "Sounds like it got pretty tough out there--the kid did what he had to do." As usual, Han covered his sadness with practiced neutrality, but there was a pensive edge to his face that had been there from the moment the news was reported.

"But Luke could still be out there!" Leia protested whirling on him. "If he wasn't shot down and wasn't captured, he could be trying to make it to the rendezvous! An X-wing can't possibly carry enough fuel to follow us here, even if he knew which way to go. We've got to try to find him!"

"As much as I wanna help the kid," Han interjected, "do you even have any idea where he is? Even if he's not in some Imperial brig, we don't have the first clue where to look."

Realizing this, Leia's face fell, her shoulders slumping. "You're right..."

"Your Highness," Wedge offered, trying to lift her spirits, his voice crackling a bit over the comm. "The moment you figure out how to help Luke, me and the Rogues'll be right behind you. Hells, you wouldn't be able to stop us from coming along!"

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Leia replied, giving a wan smile. "I do appreciate that."

"No problem, ma'am. And...if you can...please let me know if you do get anything."

"I will. Thanks, Wedge." With a sad sigh, Leia signed off--then buried her face in her arms. "Oh, Han...I can't believe he's gone..."

"Hey, hey, Highness-ness!" The moment the smuggler realized that the princess was crying, he was up and out of his seat in a heartbeat, coming over to touch her shoulder. "Hey, don't crank up the waterworks just yet--we can't write Luke off that easy. I mean," he went on awkwardly, "sure, he's a farmboy from a dustball, an' he's a bit dumb sometimes, but he's not that easy to take down. I'm sure he'll turn up."

"I can only hope you're right," Leia sniffed, dabbing at her eyes. "Stars, look at me...sitting here bawling when I can be working! I've got to go notify Command--we can get word out to every Alliance outpost on this side of the galaxy. One of them will _have_ to hear something about Luke..."

Leaving a very befuddled Han Solo standing over her chair, Leia headed rapidly for the door. There were still tears in her eyes, but her face was set with purpose and determination.

* * *

Darth Vader reacted out of instinct, the moment he sensed peril and spotted the grenade at his feet--a burst of the Force scooped up the small explosive and sent it hurtling back the way it had come, straight out the broken window. "Get down!" he roared to the foolish gawkers standing there in the room.

Only the Gungan and the old woman had the sense to listen to him--the alien dropping to cower on the floor and the elder falling to rest on the couch. The others--the younger woman and the Rebel pilot--stood like kesh-stalks, staring at him stupidly, as the grenade blew.

All of the windows on that side of the house were knocked out by the force of the blast, shards of glass hurtling inward at them. The thunderous noise finally sent the pilot and the woman to the floor, the boy trying to shield the matron from the hail of glass. Vader himself was sheltered by the heavy door he pressed up against, as the concussive wave and the roar passed through the dwelling.

For a moment afterward, there was silence--the elder woman gasping for breath and the young pilot staring up at him with large, angry, startled eyes.

Then there was distorted voices and the rumble of many footsteps. Blaster fire barked out, gouging the walls around them, as whoever approached laid down covering fire as they came from two directions--the front door and the nice new hole in the wall.

Vader was already angry enough from the delay and interference. Now, these stupid men had the gall to toss explosives around and shoot at _him?_ And they had blown a hole in this house, _her_ house--

With a roar, he ignited his lightsaber and turned into the nearest laser blasts, deflecting them back at the fools who fired them. There were at least six, crouched in the hall beyond--familiar white armor, trimmed with markings of red and black. An Imperial Special Operations crew--stormtroopers with brains. But that wasn't saying much; stormtroopers still followed their orders to the point of stupidity--even facing their own Lord Darth Vader.

But even their numbers were not enough--far from enough. It was like facing a droid army--but these troopers' aim was even poorer than the droids. How pathetic! He would not spare any of them--they attacked him, they were fools, they damaged her house, they interfered with his business...!

In a short series of parries and turns, he had mowed down half of the hallway troopers with their own deflected blaster fire, and beheaded the rest; it had hardly taken him three of his measured breaths. More waited outside, beyond the ones he had slain, but for now they could wait--for now, he would see to the noncombatants in the fireplace room.

The two familiar women--yes, he knew them well, though they could never recognize him now--were crouched down before the couch, embracing one another as blaster fire flew over their heads. Binks, the Gungan, was hiding behind the short caf table, shouting something as troopers began to climb in the broken window wall, blaster rifles spitting fire.

There was a burst of emotion and strength through the Force; the boy--that stupid boy!--was risking all to run across the firefight for his fallen blaster, completely disregarding the soldiers now drawing a bead on him. The trooper with a Lieutenant mark was the first to raise his weapon and fire at the pilot.

"Fool! Stay down!" Vader commanded, a push of the Force swatting the youth off his feet just in time to avoid the blast of laser fire. The Sith Lord heard a yelp and sizzle as the hot energy clipped the boy--pain sliced through the Force, but on the floor the pilot still moved strongly, so he was not badly damaged. Vader's intervention had kept him from taking the blast full-on.

The troopers began to correct their aim--but then Vader swept in before the young pilot, the deadly hum of his crimson blade sending the laser fire back at the soldiers. One, two, three steps and four troopers fell--easy as dismantling droids. One step, turn, two steps, and the rest were gone; four more scattered below, but they were easy pickings. The Sith Lord merely locked his saber on and hurled it, its Force-controlled arc taking it through the bodies of each man in turn. It smoothly returned to his hand, humming as he pivoted from the window to survey the room.

The Naberrie women and the Gungan had not moved; the boy had found his blaster again and was pointing it straight at him--but his aim was wavering and his left arm was held close to his side. The blackened spot on the back of his shoulder told of where he'd been grazed.

"You're pointing that the wrong way, boy," the dark lord growled, impatient with the child's stubbornness. "There are still more out there."

"I should kill you," the young pilot snarled, hand tightening on the blaster's grip. "You killed Ben--you killed my family--"

"I have killed a great many people, young one," Vader retorted evenly, "and one more will not concern me in the least, if you do not lower the weapon. Unless you actually think you can defeat me." He raised his lightsaber casually in one hand, daring the youth to take a shot at him.

Teeth gritted, the boy's arm stayed rigid for long moments, his hand shaking...until, reluctantly, he lowered the blaster to his side. His pale eyes never left Vader's face, glaring with all the fury he could never actualize.

"That's better," Vader stated, lowering his own weapon though he did not deactivate it. "Now; I have come here for one reason only--there was a message sent from this location from one Anakin Skywalker. Who is responsible for this, and where is he?"

"You won't find him!" the boy snapped. "You'll _never--!_"

"There is no one here by that name, my Lord," said the eldest woman, surprising them all by the strength in her voice and bearing as she stood up--Jobal Naberrie, who had once served him dinner and teased kindly at him...

"Do not try to deceive me," Vader cautioned, casting those memories aside. "I was generous in sparing your lives in this attack; I could just as easily let you die in the next wave."

"It is no lie, my Lord," Jobal replied evenly, her bearing firm though her face was streaked with old tears. "No one lives in this place, and no one has come here to our knowledge. My daughter and I come periodically to see to its upkeep, but no one besides us has set foot here in many years."

"You," Vader rumbled, turning to the young pilot. "You came in regards to the same message I interecepted, did you not? What did you find here?"

Unsurprisingly, the youth's chin came up, his jaw setting in defiance. He did not answer.

"Don't try my patience, brat," the Sith Lord growled, half-raising his saber. "I can pry the answers out of you--or perhaps one of the ladies would be kind enough to share with me...if I _press_ them."

The younger woman gasped, but the elder merely gazed at him, hiding her fear behind a regal bearing. The boy, on the other hand, bristled like a nexu and leaped between Vader and the women. "Don't you touch them!" he yelled, raising his blaster again. "I don't care what you do to me--you leave them alone!"

"Then speak!" Vader snapped. "Before I carve the answers out of all of you!"

When the answer came, it surprised even the dark lord himself--a whistle and a beep, that made him crank his helmeted head around. In the corner, standing innocuously next to a computer terminal--a terminal destroyed by blaster fire--was the squat form of an astromech droid. The R2 unit bleeped and honked irately at him, but its holoprojector lit up with a bright presentation of words and numbers that it projected into the middle of the room. A loyal droid--offering the information to prevent its master from coming to harm.

Smiling grimly behind his mask, Vader read the message to himself. "I see," he rumbled. "A snook hunt, then. This Jedi impostor wishes to lead a merry chase, at the end of which waits a devious trap for the evil Sith." He could almost have chuckled aloud, turning once more to the youth. "And your life is the key, eh, young 'Heir of the Jedi'?"

Eyes widening in alarm, the youth began to draw back.

Still smiling, Vader took long steps toward the boy. "I shall just have to bring the 'key' with me."

Suddenly, the Gungan stepped up in the youth's defense, standing boldly in front of him. "Yousa leavin' him be! Mesa not letten yousa ouch him!" Binks stated bravely--quite out of character for him.

"Get out of my way," Vader growled; thus far, _something_ inexplicable was holding him back from merely taking his lightsaber to these people when they resisted. But his patience was wearing thin.

"Yousa not--!"

"_Move!_" the Sith Lord snapped, with a sharp gesture. Jar Jar folded aside as if he'd been punched, knocked rolling across the floor. He gasped for air, but could not rise. Ignoring the alien, Vader reached for the boy--

The Force alerted him to the attack coming from the doorway; the remaining Special Ops troopers had finally gotten their act together to try again. The blaster bolts lanced out from the hallway even as he moved; they were aimed at the first, most obvious target--the Rebel standing in the center of the room. Vader deflected the first shots with his lightsaber even as the young pilot gasped and stepped back--but the bolts came thickly now, and his lunge to block them had put him slightly off-balance.

The Sith Lord instinctively threw himself between the boy and the incoming fire, all the while cursing his seeming inability to let these people come to harm. Even as he blocked, his clumsy lunge had set him a single beat off--if he were a still Padawan, Obi-Wan would have had his ears for that! A blaster bolt _spanged_ off the shoulder plate of his body armor, causing him to grunt at the heat of it; the burn ignited his temper, drawing the Force around him.

The troopers had not learned anything. They fell to their own blaser shots as they charged through the door, making their final attack a suicide rather than face their master after a failure; the final surviving trooper actually got within sword range, and was handily sliced in two.

With what seemed to be the last of them, Vader turned back to his business--only to find the young pilot raising his blaster again, near point-blank. The Sith Lord's lightsaber came up--he sensed danger, but not from the boy..._behind--!_

He swung around, his blade blocking the spray of laser fire--then the young pilot stepped aside of him, and his blaster barked twice; Vader finished his parry as the two remaining Special Ops soldiers fell from the broken wall opening, both neatly shot between the eyes. No deflected blaster fire had hit them.

Somehow startled despite himself, Vader turned slowly to regard the youth. The boy was still glaring at him, but was lowering his blaster. "I didn't do that for _you_," the young pilot spat. "They might've hurt someone."

The youth's "someone" obviously did not include the Sith Lord.

"That was the last of them," Vader informed him, unconcerned with the fact that he'd just wiped out a whole squad of Imperial Special Ops troopers. "You no longer need the weapon."

The boy glared at Vader's outstretched hand, his fingers twitching on the blaster's grip. Stubborn as a bantha, this child--furious with his own helplessness, but undaunted nonetheless.

"If you wish your companions to remain unharmed, you _will_ comply," Vader stated, his lightsaber still humming at his side. At this blatant threat, the youth folded at last; still glaring laser bolts, he placed the blaster in the Sith Lord's open palm.

"I _hate_ you," the boy whispered, in a very small, very angry voice.

"I'm crushed," Vader drawled. "Now you--and the droid. Come."

Belting his blade and half-turning to the door, he spotted the silver glint of the young pilot's lightsaber, still sitting where it had fallen. Almost casually, he summoned the weapon to his hand; no sense in wasting a perfectly good--

The lightsaber fit to his palm as if it belonged there, a heft and balance in his hand that he had not felt in years--he stared at it, for a moment caught in inescapable shock. He _knew_ this weapon--every gram of its weight, every little scratch and dent, every button on its surface, every millimeter of the grip...

Vader rounded on the boy, his mind blanked with disbelief and fury. "Where did you get this lightsaber?" he demanded, his fist locked in the front of the young pilot's shirt, all but hoisting him off his feet, ignoring the fearful cries of the women. "_Where?_"

When the youth did not immediately answer, the enraged Sith Lord began to shake him, his anger powerful enough to rattle through the very room. "Who gave this to you? Answer me--_how did you get it?_"

_"**Stop** it. Anakin, **stop**. You'll hurt us."_

The voice jolted through him like an electric shock, clawing at his heart with a sudden stab of old, remembered guilt--enough to make him drop the boy like a hot rock, involuntarily stepping back. The boy was still staring at him, a lot of his fury replaced by fear, those strangely haunting eyes large in his face.

Vader stared back at him, angry that mere memory could cause him to react so. What was it with all these voices from his dead past? Why did he have to be haunted by these ghosts?

"I have no time for this," he growled, gripping the old lightsaber tightly in one hand. "Boy. Droid. Move."

When the young pilot only stared at him, Vader grabbed him by the uninjured shoulder and shoved him toward the door. Stumbling, the boy hissed and snapped out a sharp string of derogatory Huttese--in hopes his captor would not understand--and Vader almost laughed; with one sentence, the boy betrayed himself. While his Basic was spoken in the the flat, casual tones of an Outer-Rimworlder--his origins undefinable--his accent in Huttese was pure, provincial Tatooine, gutter slang and all. Vader would know that dialect anywhere.

It was almost funny; what were the odds?

"Chesko, pidunki," Vader growled, not _quite_ amused, as he pushed the boy onward. "While that kind of language might suit a little desert rat like you, it just might annoy me enough to remove your tongue."

Hooting irately, the faithful little droid rolled into the hallway after them, while the younger of the two women helped up the fallen Gungan. Jobal, however, hurried after them to the front door, tears streaming anew down her careworn face.

"Lord Vader!" she called out, as the Sith Lord forced the young pilot down the steps. "Please--leave him alone! You have your message--take the droid! But please...leave him...!" He heard her sob as she fell, her legs failing her in the doorway. "Must you destroy...even _him?_ Monster! Haven't you taken _enough_ from us?"

Suddenly stung by her words, he whirled on her. "Woman, you know _nothing!_ I _never_ would have--!"

Once again, he was getting out of control. Once again, his mouth spoke without his mind's leave. And once again, the Sith Lord reined himself in, furious at his lapse. "You forget yourself. Do not make me regret sparing your life!" Great hells, he had to get off this planet. It was making him crazy.

But...this was _her_ family. If they were hurt...she would've cried...

"Leave this place," he rumbled reluctantly to the bereft old woman. "And do not return. It is no longer safe. I will not be here the next time."

With that, Vader strode onward, leaving the distraught woman on the porch. Keeping a firm grip on the struggling boy's scruff, he headed for the somewhat damaged speeders parked in the driveway; the kaadu-and-sled had apparently run off when the shooting started. The civilian landspeeder rested on the ground, dead, but the tougher military grade of the Imperial speeder kept it in one piece despite the blaster scars in its hide.

"Do not trouble me," he growled at the boy, as he shoved him into the rear compartment of the large speeder--the section which could be locked, for prisoners and the like. "You live only as long as your usefulness. Inconvenience me in any way, and I'll remove a few limbs to keep you quiet."

Though he was silent, fury and terror warred for equal place on the young pilot's face as Vader closed the hatch on him.

The astromech droid, not nearly as fearful as its master, squealed and honked an endless tirade of abuse at the Sith Lord; Vader only tolerated the noise because destroying the unit would lose him the planetary coordinates of his next destination. It reminded him a great deal of a droid he had once worked closely with--both the attitude and the paint job were remarkably similar.

It was easy enough to lift the droid into the speeder hatch, using the Force; he placed it in the space between the seats, on its side so it couldn't do anything more than spin its wheels and burble at him. The Force would also let him keep tabs on the young pilot closed in the rear; at the moment, the boy's emotions swirled with too much fear, dismay, and helplessness for him to do anything to escape.

Vader closed the door and hit the ignition, and the speeder coughed reluctantly to life. He had the trail of the impostor, he had the 'key' the message described, and he was one step closer to eliminating this...annoying little hiccup and getting back to more important matters. His master might not be pleased that the Special Ops team had been eliminated, but when Vader brought him news of the impostor's demise and the destruction of the Rebels, the Emperor would surely forgive him.

And then there was the boy. Yes, his master might enjoy that little gift...

In the speeder's rearview screen, three figures huddled on the old lakehouse porch, helpless, shrinking in the distance. Forcing back the needle of pain somewhere deep within his darkness, Darth Vader turned his eyes to the gray bridge and the road ahead, pushing the speeder to full throttle to escape this haunting place.

_To be continued..._


	10. Chapter 8

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**   
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 8**

Jobal Naberrie could not stop her tears, clinging to her equally grieved eldest daughter. His long arms around them, awkwardly patting their shoulders in comfort, Jar Jar Binks kept a steady vigil, ears and eyestalks drooped with failure.

"Mesa so much sorry..." the Gungan murmured. "My no goodda nothin'. Mesa can't eb'n protectin' poor Lukie...mesa so sorry..."

"It's not your fault, Jar Jar," Sola whispered. "None of us could have done anything--not against that...that..._Sith_." She spat the word like the dark curse it was.

"He'll never stop," Jobal choked, anger and grief clouding her careworn features. "He's the one--he killed the Jedi. He killed poor Anakin...he stole my Padme from me...destroyed their lives...and now he's taken the last piece of my baby I had left...!" Struggling to stand, the old woman leaned heavily on her daughter. "I can't let this go on--someone..._has_ to stop this...stop _him_..."

"What can we do, Mother?" Sola demanded through her tears. "We have nothing--we're not even Jedi, and look how easily he destroyed them!"

"Ussen Gungans woulda help," Jar Jar offered, "but wesa got no more grand army. Wesa lost allem tings, dat Palpy took an' kill 'em. All wesa got left is ussen courages--so wesa helpen anyting we can do. Mesa helpen 'specially--mesa no more stayin' home hidin'!"

Jobal was silent for a single, long moment, before she turned her tearful gaze sternly to both Jar Jar and Sola. "Ruwee...knows a man," she stated quietly. "He knows how to contact that man, but he has never risked it before. That man...is a member of the Rebel Alliance."

Sola's eyes bulged. "Mother! You can't be thinking--!"

"I'm not going to sit back and watch any more--I've lost too much!" the elder woman snapped, fire growing in her eyes. "I may be an old fool, but I'm not going to let my grandchild go without a fight! Your father can ask that man to put us in contact with the Rebel Alliance, and they're the _only_ ones who have any chance of standing up to the Empire _and_ Vader. I've heard rumors there _are_ Jedi left, and they're with the Alliance. It's our only hope. It's _Luke's_ only hope."

"Dem badEmpires, dey no likin' yousa do dat," Jar Jar warned, though he seemed eager to do it himself. "Isa maxi risky bombin'--muy dangerous."

Sola nodded in agreement, though she knew better than to try to talk her mother out of anything. "Mother...you know if you do this...we won't be safe any more."

"No one is safe," Jobal said, with a small snort of sad amusement. "Vader was right about that, at least--this place is no longer safe for anyone. The whole _galaxy_ isn't safe any more." She met her daughter's eyes once more, full of regret. "We'll have to leave Naboo. All of us."

"At least...Darred will be able to get us offplanet," Sola told her. "He's had emergency arrangements made for years, in case...something happened. And Pooja's been wanting to leave for a long time now--I half expect she wanted to join the Rebels herself. It's Ryoo's family I'm worried about; they've put down roots...it'll be hard for them to leave, but...if they stay..."

"I think they'll understand," Jobal assured her, taking both Sola and Jar Jar's hands. "One day, when this is over, we'll all come home--_together_. Luke will be with us, and we'll be a _family_ again. I swear it on my daughter's grave--I will not let that monster hurt us any more..."

* * *

Luke was still somewhere between terrified and furious, even though he was calming down. With the adrenaline of the fight gone, he was stuck in a sort of weary daze, exhausted from all that had happened; his upper arm and shoulder throbbed where he'd been scored, and he was getting motion sickness from being crammed in a small, dim, stuffy compartment with no windows and no fresh air, as the Imperial speeder rattled on to parts unknown. He'd lost everything--his pack of belongings, his weapons, his self-esteem...

And he was kicking himself--and the wall--for being so stupid and so helpless. Vader--his worst enemy, murderer of his father and family--had captured him like he was nothing more than an errant child. He had been too overwhelmed and horrified to do much of anything. The way Vader could dodge and deflect _blaster shots_, for spraint's sake--the way he had cut down those stormtroopers like so many weeds, in a handful of heartbeats...it was both frightening and awe-inspiring, making Luke wonder if the Jedi had been anything near that powerful. If that was what Vader could do, no wonder the Jedi were extinct.

It hurt to wonder if Anakin Skywalker had been cut down so easily...or if he'd given Vader a run for his money. Luke hoped his father had done better than Ben--hoped he was still alive, wherever they were going. Hoped that when they got there, his father would put Vader down for good and for all.

He _hated_ the Sith Lord--the fury he felt at the mere sight of that mask was indescribable. That man--or whatever the hells he was inside that armor--was more than anyone responsible for all the losses in his life; his father, his friends, his family, his home...and now, possibly his future and his life. Vader was cruelty and domination personified, a cold, thoughtless executioner--

...and yet, he had saved Luke, his aunt, and his grandmother--even Jar Jar--from what would have been certain death. Luke knew he could never have defended them against all those stormtroopers alone--and that in itself grated on him, that he was so helpless. Some Hero of the Alliance he was.

It confused him, that Vader could so casually cut down his own men. Those troopers obviously hadn't been acting under his orders...but...why would the feared and revered Darth Vader be in opposition to Imperial troops? It made no sense!

He had to admit, he'd never come face-to-face with Vader before, so he'd had no idea what to expect from him in person. But the supposedly evil Sith Lord had been a bundle of conflicts--cruel and protective at the same time, somehow both violent and almost _kind_. There was generosity to be found in his defense of the Naberrie family--and in the gruff warning the Sith had left behind. How did someone so dark and terrible have any capacity for charity?

And he'd reacted to the sight of Anakin's lightsaber like...like someone had stolen something from him...

Luke didn't have any more time to ponder--the speeder had stopped. Soon enough, the rear hatch was opened, the sudden bright light half-blinding him; he was grabbed by the arms bundled out of the speeder by rough, uncaring hands and his wrist summarily bound in front of him. As he blinked his vision clear, he realized he was surrounded by stormtroopers in the midst of a speeder garage--and his chances of escape had just gone from dismal to _abysmal_.

Something tingled in his mind again, and he turned his head just in time to see Vader stride by--skies, was this what Ben meant, what strong presences in the Force felt like? If it was, Vader felt like touching a live wire--a storm, a shivering cold.

"Bring him to my ship," the dark lord rumbled in passing, and the troopers were quick to obey, shoving Luke along in the midst of their formation, hurrying to keep up with the Sith. Behind them, Artoo was loaded onto a repulsor sled--honking at the Imperials, of course, but offering no resistance--and pushed along.

Luke cried out once, when a soldier's rough hand struck his injured shoulder--but neither the troopers or their master ever looked back. Oh, this was bad--this was _worse_ than bad, this was nightmarish. He'd been captured by the Empire--hadn't Leia warned him? She was going to kill him, if the Imperials didn't--and if they found out who exactly he was and what he'd done, they'd torture him to death painfully and slowly, and he'd never see Leia or Han or Chewie again...

_I really hope I'm dreaming,_ the distraught youth thought frantically, as they shoved him out into a landing bay where a sleek gray shuttle waited. _I hope I'm unconscious from the crash and my mind just made all this up--please, Ben! Where are you? Help me!_

Oddly, Vader turned to glance at him as they approached the shuttle ramp; Luke could almost sense the frown. For a long time, as the troopers held him still, the Sith Lord just stared at him, his dark presence a thundercloud on the edge of Luke's fledgeling senses. Unconsciously, the youth began pulling back against his captors, trying to shrink away.

Finally, the huge black figure turned back to the ramp. "Lock him in the rear holding cell," he ordered shortly, striding up the ramp. "And put the droid in a harness. Then clear me for launch."

"Yes sir!"

Luke couldn't tell which of the troopers had spoken--the comm-distorted voices were impossible to identify. But he was shoved onward anyway, up the ramp and into the back of the large shuttle. Once again, he was tossed into a small room--a little less cramped than the speeder's compartment, but still hardly a five-star suite--and the door whirred shut to lock with an ominous _thunk_.

Against the back wall, there was one flat slab of metal that served as a bed. No toilet facilities, no windows, no food or water. Just a camera sensor over the door and an intercomm unit high on the wall; no buttons, so it was probably used for giving prisoners orders. The whole room was dark gray, almost black, and the only light available came from a single shielded glowbulb in the middle of the ceiling.

Lost, Luke leaned against the wall and slid down it, huddling his knees to his chin on the floor. This was really happening--he was a prisoner of the Empire, captured by Darth Vader himself. He was going to be executed--and worse, tortured and used against his friends. That was the thought that hurt the most.

He had never felt more alone.

_Ben...please, I need you...someone--anyone! Father...Father, if you're out there...please...help me!_

* * *

Already priming his ship for takeoff, Vader tried to ignore the bright Force-presence of the young pilot in the back of his shuttle. It was...distracting, being this close to the boy--not only was he strong, but he was putting out enough anger and fear to knock a Star Destroyer out of orbit, had he known how to actualize it. But despite his negative emotions, his signature in the Force remained like a small sun, crackling with energy and emotion.

Vader could sense the youth's faint tendrils of power reaching out--desperate, pleading, searching, touching the Force without even realizing it. He could not reach far, however, and his pleas contained only raw emotion, no words; there was no one to hear him--no one but the Sith Lord himself.

_I'm going to get a headache if he keeps crying out like that,_ the dark lord growled to himself. _It's like listening to a wailing infant..._

Vader wasted no time once he was cleared for launch, powering his ship to full throttle and breaking the atmosphere, eager to be away from this graveyard of memories and on the hunt for another Jedi--or Jedi impostor. He hadn't had real competition in years; a true Jedi to fight would be a treat indeed.

Impatient to be off, he turned his attention to the droid strung up in the harness in the rear of the cockpit. "I don't want any trouble from you," he growled, his temper quite short from all the happenings today. "You will provide me with the coordinates for the hyperspace jump, or I will make sure your master suffers."

The astromech made a raspberry sound and whonked something very derogatory, but it did obey--for an enemy droid, it was being remarkably compliant. The holoprojector displayed the numbers to him, and he copied them into the navicomputer; it had to be somewhere he'd been before, since he seemed to recall the numbers. The navicom worked, calculating the destination--and when it was complete, the screen lit up.

And Vader sat back in his chair, staring. At first, he was startled--then, he was angry.

Tatooine.

"_Blast_ this impostor!" he snarled aloud, his fist nearly cracking the panel. "What perverse and hellish delight does he take in dragging me through these places?"

Behind him, the droid chirped quietly--for once, not abusive, but an interrogative, sympathetic sound.

"Be silent," Vader growled. "I need no pity--least of all from a droid."

Surprisingly, the astromech complied.

He'd sworn never to return to that dustball planet the _first_ time he'd left it for good--and now here he was, going back again and again...

Wait--did this have something to do with that young Rebel pilot? The boy was from Tatooine, that much was certain. Did this impostor have some connection with him, and that was why the message was sent?

Vader pulled the lever that kicked his shuttle into hyperspace, then glared down at the additional lightsaber clipped to his belt. Scowling, he freed it and brought it up to stare at it, wondering how it had come to be in the posession of a teenage Force-sensitive pilot. Last he'd known...Obi-Wan had taken it, hadn't he? Vader's memories of those last minutes were not clear, but he was almost positive his old master had carried his weapon away.

If Obi-Wan had kept it...why was it now in the boy's hands? Was it--wait, hadn't the boy's presence been near Obi-Wan's when they fought their final battle on the Death Star? The Sith Lord wasn't quite certain--he'd been so absorbed in his old master's demise he hadn't thought much beyond it. So...had the boy been Obi-Wan's Padawan learner?

That answer made no sense--the boy had to be at _least_ sixteen, by the look of him, and yet his level of training was pitiful. No Jedi student with his capabilities would be allowed anywhere near a lightsaber; the youth didn't even have the basic skills with the Force that even a Jedi youngling had. A real Padawan of sixteen years was a capable warrior, raised from infancy to know the Force, and at that age would be nearly a full Jedi Knight.

No...there was something else to this. Perhaps Obi-Wan had merely stumbled across this unusually strong boy while the old man hid from the Empire. If Tatooine was the boy's birthplace, it was a logical place for Obi-Wan to hide--a place Vader avoided. How clever...

But why give the boy this old lightsaber? He couldn't use it, that much was quite apparent; it was more like a memento than a weapon in that regard--the boy had gone for his blaster first. Only something sentimental would cause his old master to give an untrained teenage child such a dangerous weapon with no instruction. Unless...

The thought turned his stomach--could the boy be Obi-Wan's son? It was remotely possible...the boy's features seemed hauntingly familiar, though he did not resemble the memories Vader had of Obi-Wan in his younger days. There was the eyes...Obi-Wan's had been blue-gray--would that have matched the pale irises he saw now through his cursedly imperfect viewscreens? And the boy's hair was quite pale as well, likely sun-bleached and only just beginning to darken from time in space; Obi-Wan's had been darker, a reddish color in his memory. And the boy was..._small_, hardly topping Vader's own shoulder, lean and wiry. Obi-Wan had been both taller, and more solidly built. There was little to no resemblence between them.

Yes, it was patently unbelievable that the boy was Obi-Wan's offspring; his old master was so steeped in Jedi law that he would never commit such a "sin." Obi-Wan would never allow attachments, never stoop to siring a child--his own childish jealousies of years ago seemed stupid in that light. Unless his old mastar was truly desperate for an apprentice to train--a new "Chosen One" to play god with, to shape as a weapon against Darth Vader...but then, the boy should have been trained from birth in that scenario as well.

_Or,_ Vader reminded himself, _I'm just thinking too deeply about this, and Obi-Wan simply discovered him by accident and handed the boy the only immediately available lightsaber. It's not like they're easy to build, especially in the middle of a Force-forsaken desert..._

Yes, a less complicated solution like that seemed better. Even if the Force murmured at him, the simple answer made much more sense.

Perhaps he could question the boy during the journey--if Naboo was a ways from the Core Worlds, then Tatooine was still further. The trip would be longer, this time; Vader would have ample opportunity to get some food and rest before facing what lay ahead--as well as finding out what the Rebel pilot knew about this whole affair.

Things were going much better, now.

* * *

"My dear Admiral Ozzel," the Emperor greeted smoothly, putting a great deal of happiness and camaraderie in his tone--all the better to foster this little illusion of friendship. "I've been anxiously awaiting your comm--have you news for me?"

The hologram of Ozzel bowed smartly, kneeling before his leader. "I have indeed, my Lord Emperor. You requested a report from the prisoner's interrogation, sir. I've just received it a moment ago from the brig staff."

"Good...good...do proceed, Admiral." Palpatine leaned forward in his chair, as if he'd been waiting for this news all day.

"Yes, your Highness." Glancing down at the datapad in his hands, Ozzel began to read off the report. "Officer in charge of interrogation reports high subject resistance, and the use of level four extraction techniques. The subject then supplied the information of his name and rank; Lieutenant Tay Mach, a pilot in the Rogue Squadron--that's Rebellion's top fighter group, your Highness."

"I've heard of them, Admiral," the Emperor said, somewhat sourly. "Go on."

"The mission at the transmitter beacon was mostly data retrieval, then to destroy the beacon. Two other Rebels were also at the scene, presumably the ones who escaped--also Rogue pilots, one by the name of Luke Skywalker, and the other Wedge Antilles, who both took part in the destruction of--"

"_What?_" Abruptly, Palpatine was sitting bolt upright in his chair, fiery yellow eyes fixed upon the admiral.

Suddenly nervous, Ozzel cleared his throat. "Er, my Lord Emperor...?"

"That name--the pilot! The one who escaped!"

"Ah...Antilles or Skywalker, sir?"

The Emperor's eyes narrowed. "Skywalker..."

"Oh, yes, that one," the admiral went on blithely. "Luke Skywalker--apparently he's the one responsible for destroying the Death Star; the prisoner was clear on the fact that Skywalker is an excellent pilot, with--"

"It can't be."

"Er...sir?"

Palpatine seemed to come back to himself then, fixing Ozzel once more with his baleful stare. "Gather your fleet immediately, Admiral. Go to Naboo. I want you to locate Lord Vader and inform him that he is to report to me in person on Imperial Center in all haste."

"Ah, er, yes, your Higness..." Ozzel replied, confused. "But...can't your Excellency contact Lord Vader via your personal comm?"

"I would," the Emperor hissed, "but that fool apprentice of mine has turned his tracker off!"

Blinking, Ozzel stared. "Er...my Lord...?"

Realizing who was still listening, Palpatine calmed himself. "Find Lord Vader, Admiral," he commanded coldly. "And if you find that pilot--Skywalker..."

"Yes, your Higness?" the admiral asked cautiously.

"_Kill him_."

_To be continued..._


	11. Chapter 9

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**   
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 9**

_He walked with a spring in his step; the air was cool across his face, sweet in his nostrils, full of flowers and green grass and blue water. He was almost home--it was another day's end, and all was well; she would be waiting for him when he arrived. _

_Then he was striding through the door, throwing aside his cloak. He swore he could smell shaak stew, and it made his mouth water. There was crying--an infant, somewhere...upstairs? _

_Where was she? She should be hurrying by any moment to look after the baby... _

_That's right--he was looking for her. He was supposed to tell her something--supposed to warn her. She was...in danger. Right? Wasn't that what he was supposed to tell her? Or...maybe he was just supposed to tell her the baby was crying... _

_Was the baby in danger? Was that it? _

_Worry and confusion filled him; something was wrong--he knew it. He had to find her. He all but ran through the house, searching. Where was she? She should be here! _

_He heard her voice--and his worry shattered like thin ice. There she was--she was alright! He hurried into the room, a grin on his face-- _

_She was there, and she was talking with...Obi-Wan, his master, young and strong. No, Obi-Wan was not his master any more...he was old...he was... _

_All he knew was that rage flooded him at the sight of the other man. "You!" he snarled. "You turned against me! You all did!" _

_She turned to gaze at him, her dark eyes brimming. "Anakin, you're breaking my heart!" _

_Pain lanced through him. "You betrayed me!" he roared, charging forward, lightsaber raised. "You betrayed me for **him!**" _

_Rage fueling the Force all around him, he flew past her like a freight railer to clash with Obi-Wan, two blue lightsabers crackling together. _

_Wait...**blue**...? _

_Force and energy screamed between them as they fought. Obi-Wan matched him blow for blow, no longer a slow old man; he could almost smell sulfur in the room. _

_But then Obi-Wan stopped, saluting with his lightsaber. _

_He saw his opening and went for it. _

"_You were my brother, Anakin. I loved you," Obi-Wan said--and then was cut in half. _

"_**No!**" Wait--wait--that wasn't right! Obi-Wan didn't care--Obi-Wan betrayed him, turned against him. But he yearned for what was lost long ago...he didn't want it to be like this! "No--come back!" _

_The baby was no longer crying in the background; there was a voice he heard but could not hear, calling for him. _

"_**...Father...Father...help me...!**" _

_The plea struck him deep inside--that voice, his son! He whirled toward the sound, and shouted in disbelief--she was lying on the floor. Frozen and pale on the ground...where he'd...he'd thrown her aside with the Force in his fury. She was so still, not a breath left in her-- _

_--**no, oh gods and hells and Force, NO!**-- _

_--and he screamed in dismay. _

_Someone was standing over her body, kneeling at her side--the blurry figure of the son he'd never known. The boy was crying, staring up at him with accusing eyes, and there was no smile this time. _

_Because he'd killed the boy's mother--the one he loved, the one he'd die for, he killed her and he did it without even thinking, and he hadn't even **cared**...! _

_The boy fixed him with those crystal blue eyes and spoke with a Rebel pilot's voice. _

"_I **hate** you!" _

_Cut to the very core, he cried out in loss and agony--_

* * *

--a sharp, hoarse shout that echoed through his quarters. Once again, Vader was jolted awake in anguish, sitting up rigidly in his bed, as the edges of another dream/nightmare faded from his eyes.

He was breathing hard, his respirator picking up the pace to keep up with the stress--sweat poured from every pore that still functioned, and his heart felt like it would beat out of his chest despite its regulator.

_"...you're breaking my heart..."_

_"I **hate** you!"_

He himself had howled those burning, spiteful words before. But to have them flung back in his face in such anguish and rage, coming from someone he loved...oh, burning skies...it was pure pain...!

He pressed his forehead into the cool mechanical palm of his right hand. For a few moments, he was once again caught between sleep and awareness--caught in that weak, emotional place where dreams were remembered and tears were cried.

_...I killed her I killed her I killed her oh Force I killed her...!_

His left hand made a fist, while his right hand shook. Half of him tried to seek refuge in rage, while the other half wept in anguish. He could never forgive, or be forgiven; he was utterly alone--he'd made his own damning choice to destroy everyone and everything close to him. There was nothing left but sorrow, anger, and hate--nothing left but his own black, bitter, broken heart.

_...I killed her and our child and everyone who ever mattered to me--they hate me and he hates me and I killed everyone I loved--what am I doing here--hells, what am I doing...?_

_...what am I doing?_

_What am I **doing?**_

"_Stop it!_"

The rasp of his own voice shocked him out of the mental mire, so rarely did he speak without his vocoder. The cold metal of his jointed, mechanical fingers against his temples began to bring reason back to his flailing, falling mind--freezing the tears that dammed up behind his eyes. Eventually, order began to return; truth prevailed over emotion, and he remembered his purpose.

_I killed everyone who betrayed me,_ he told himself, pulling his cloak of anger over the old wounds. _They died as traitors deserve! Cowards, murderers, and fools--Windu and the whole Jedi Order! And her...she and Kenobi were the worst of all...promising trust to my face, then stabbing me in the back!_

Raising his head at last, he checked his chronometer. He had been asleep many hours, and Naboo was far behind. No reason to keep dwelling in the past, even if Tatooine loomed close. He had no love for _that_ planet.

But it was high time he got up and saw to matters at hand--namely, the Rebel pilot sitting in his brig. At the very least, he should give the boy some water; dead prisoners rarely helped anyone. Scowling at himself, pushing the last remnants of the dream away, he turned out of the bed to set his mechanical feet on the floor.

Without his life-sustaining suit, he was little more than a cripple--a fit, strong, Force-gifted man, but a cripple nonetheless. Not even Sith could live indefinitely without air, and his scarred lungs could no longer breathe on their own--and that was only _one_ of his problems.

It was a bloody _chore_ getting his armor off to rest--but he couldn't sleep in it, or his neck would never be the same and he'd have so many sores he'd lose what skin he had left. But at least his bed had an oxygen unit built into it, and was temperature-controlled, so he could sleep comfortably without the heavy armor and helmet. The sleeping mask was light and soft, but was never made to operate separately from the bed.

And it was equally difficult to suit himself back up again, especially in the "rustic" confines of his shuttle's personal chambers; here, he had no machines to help him with his boots and helmet--he just had to struggle through on his own. Making the tenuous and ever-painful step from the sleep mask to his daily one, lifting the heavy armor and strapping it on, fumbling with his ever-so-clumsy mechanical limbs to get his gloves on...

But by all hells, he was _never_ going to walk out that door without every last bit of his armor--it was all that stood between him and the world. His own face was a nightmare he had refused to look upon for years; at least the mask was a _distinguished_ and _elegant_ nightmare.

Not for the first time, he wondered if it was worth it to ask his master for some time off for a little medical research...

Never mind that; he had more important things to think about. Making certain his helmet was secure, Vader set his shoulders and strode out the door.

His ship was still in order; up the hall to the fore, the cockpit was dark and quiet, the astro-droid sitting silently in its harness. Its dome rotated to regard him as he leaned in the hatch to check the navigation controls; it only tweeted softly, interrogatively.

Vader ignored the droid; satisfied with the results of his perusal, he headed for the rear of the ship, past his living quarters and the small sitting area and kitchenette. It was there he picked up a bottle of stored water from the refrigeration unit, recalling that his prisoner would need at least this to stay alive.

Beyond the sitting area, there was a security door to open; then, at last, he was standing in the aftmost chamber of his personal vessel--a small anteroom with a computer terminal, and the door to the holding cell. It had been years since he'd had anyone else aboard.

Curious, Vader sent tendrils of the Force ahead into the cell, finding--strangely--little abject terror any more; now there was a sense of low-grade tension, nervousness, and tedium, as well as...faint, subconscious awareness. On some level, the boy knew that he was coming, accounting for the increasing anxiety in him.

Bracing himself for possible deception and attack--habit, really--Vader palmed the door key and stepped inside.

Within the cell, the boy sat on the floor against the sleeping platform on the far side, his hands still trapped in binders in front of him. As Vader entered, the youth's head jerked up to stare at the Sith Lord almost guiltily. He pulled his legs up, withdrawing defensively, as the dark figure towered over him even from the doorway.

It was then that Vader realized he was hearing music.

That made no sense; Vader himself did not prefer to listen to music, so he would not have left it on anywhere in the ship, and there was nothing in the cell that should have been able to produce any. At first, he thought his helmet's audio receptors had completely fritzed--and then, he realized the sounds were coming from the wall beside the door.

The cell comm panel had somehow been unscrewed from the wall, the small speaker hanging by wires alone. Behind it, it was obvious someone had been poking around in the innards of the comm; various wires were pulled out, cut, or spliced into other wires.

Apparently, this unit had been rigged to pull hyperwave radio transmissions from the receiver in the cockpit. Unsurprisingly, the radio receiver ran through the same systems the ship's intercom did--but what the young pilot had thought to accomplish with a mere receiver was baffling. There was no way to contact anyone; all he could do was pick up whatever was on the band the cockpit radio was set to--Coruscant symphony, apparently. Vader hadn't turned the radio on in years.

The biggest mystery, in Vader's eyes, was how a young pilot would know how to splice wires in the rear of a ship to pass through the intersystem comm lines and shunt power from the speaker's energy source to the radio's feed. Not to mention--how in space had he gotten the panel off?

"You've been busy," he growled, displeased.

"I was bored," the boy muttered stubbornly, almost like a petulant toddler.

"You will not dismantle any more parts of my ship, or I'll make sure you don't have hands to meddle with," Vader threatened, shaking a stern finger at the youth. Really--fiddling with electronics out of boredom? Didn't a prisoner have more important things to worry about? "We will be arriving at our next destination in less than four hours. You will come quietly, and you will present yourself alive to whoever waits for you there. If you interfere after that, your death will come much sooner."

Defiant, the youth stared at the middle of the floor, refusing to rise from his huddle. Vader glared down at him, perturbed that he couldn't use his usual methods of extracting information; he needed the boy living and whole when they arrived, else the little "key" wouldn't unlock his door and the mission would be a failure.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi gave you that lightsaber," he stated, not beating around the bush. "Don't try to lie. What was your relationship to him?"

The boy's hands were white-knuckled, but he didn't answer.

"Speak!"

Vader's bark of command made the youth jump visibly, huge eyes staring at him like a krali fawn stares at a gundark. Swallowing hard, the boy seemed ready to fold himself into his corner and disappear, but his voice--quiet and raspy with fear--did not fail him.

"He was...going to teach me."

"_Going_ to? He taught you nothing of the Force?"

"Just...a little bit," the boy husked, turning his eyes down to the floor. "You killed him."

"And good riddance," the Sith Lord growled. "He died a traitor and a fool. You'll soon join him, if you persist against me."

"What did I ever do to you?" the young pilot burst out, his fearful fawn-eyes suddenly like those of a warrior--bold and bright, if only for a few moments. "You've taken everything from me and I never did anything to you! You killed my father and my family and--!"

"You ally yourself with Rebels and Jedi, brat," Vader snapped, "and that makes you my enemy. I have neither patience nor mercy for my enemies."

"You killed my family first," the boy murmured, his nerve lost but his defiance remaining, as he stared once more at the floor. "I had nowhere else to go...so I followed Ben."

"Ben?" Vader growled. "Obi-Wan's alias?"

"I was just a normal kid," the youth whispered, blinking back tears. "They were just farmers...and you killed them, and I had nothing..."

Struck, Vader stared down at the boy, faint shards of old guilt taking hold in his angry heart. Irritated by his own hesitation, he turned away--this stubborn, stilted conversation was likely to be fruitless anyway. "We will be arriving on Tatooine soon. I suggest you prepare for this confrontation," he informed the young pilot tersely, tossing the water bottle carelessly into the cell. "And don't meddle with any more of my ship."

With that, he stomped out of the cell, brooding in his own dark thoughts--completely missing the startled stare the boy sent after him.

* * *

As the shuttle came into orbit above Tatooine, Vader began to search for the location of the address given in the message. He was certain he knew where it was--certain he'd seen the address before, and it had been important.

He didn't realize _how_ important until the shuttle was pulling low over the humped shapes of small buildings, coming in for a landing not far from the central structure. It was evening on this side of the desert planet, but he could see his landing site quite clearly. _Too_ clearly.

But then, he reflected angrily, he should have known. If that damned impostor had the gall to drag him through the Naboo lakehouse, of _course_ they were going to take him straight back here.

The little homestead where Shmi Skywalker had spent the last years of her life. A farm. A family. _Lars_.

It hurt to remember her, so he refused to. Pushed her back into the dark underdepths of his mind where a thousand other pains resided.

But...something was wrong here. Rising from his seat at the controls, Vader peered out the viewscreen at the little farmstead, taking in the aged structures and scattered debris. No one emerged to greet them--many of the small outbuildings were damaged and collapsed, their contents gutted. There were scorch-marks, soot deposits.

The place had been attacked.

Inexplicable anger rose in him, though he knew he should be far beyond caring for these simple folk. Had the brutish Tuskens returned to finish their cruel work?

With a shake of his head, he turned away to march into the back. Such things didn't matter any more; his business was with the impostor, and the rest could go hang. He didn't care about the Lars--Shmi Skywalker was dead, and with her any connection to the wretched farmers.

This time, the boy was sitting on the sleeping platform when he entered, looking rather pensive. "Get up," Vader commanded. "We've arrived."

Pale and grim, the boy glared at him but rose from his spot, squeezing furtively past the Sith Lord to precede him through the ship. Impatient, Vader herded the youth to the ramp, anxious to lure out the impostor and get this farce over with. He was tired of old memories bringing up bad dreams.

The young pilot's feet had hardly touched sand when he pulled up short, causing Vader to nearly trip over him. The dark lord was about to snap out a dire reprimand when the boy's soft, hoarse voice spoke a single word that halted the angry Sith with a jolt of surprise.

"_Home_..."

_To be continued..._


	12. Chapter 10

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**   
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 10**

Horror and grief and burning anger coming to him through the Force, Vader stared at the boy in something like disbelief, a single piece of a hazy puzzle falling into place.

_Home,_ he realized. _This was his home..._

Burning skies, this boy--he was the _Lars'_ child?

What were the odds that the son of a pair of farmers from the fringe of the Outer Rim--his stepfamily, no less!--would end up becoming a Rebel? And the probability that such a child would emerge so strong in the Force...perhaps there was more to why Shmi Skywalker had ended up here...

As Vader's mind turned this new information over, the boy was stumbling ahead on stiff legs, his presence in the Force roiling with sorrow and fury. He stopped before the entrance to the small courtyard pit, his head bowed and his spine straight. The evening wind was hot and sharp, pushing dust-devils of sand across the homestead; the potential for a night sandstorm seemed strong, but the boy didn't appear to heed it at all.

Wary, Vader followed him slowly, ready for a possible attack if the Jedi impostor awaited them here--but he sensed no one else nearby, and that infuriated him; another delay. Unconsciously, his eyes flicked to the where he knew the row of shadowed graves lay at the edge of the home compound; the marker belonging to Shmi Skywalker was missing, but he knew by heart where she lay--beside it was an old grave, probably Cliegg Lars, and nearby were two newer mounds with plain desert rocks as headstones.

That's right--the boy had said they were dead; all of them, Owen Lars and that fiancee/wife of his.

_I didn't kill them,_ he remembered, vaguely confused through his annoyance. _When last I left them, they were alive and well. I had no quarrel with these people._

But he did have a quarrel with whatever impostor might lurk nearby, hiding himself. Thus far, he sensed nothing--only a low-grade danger from perhaps the possibility of the storm. No one--Jedi or otherwise--stood out near him, but for the bright presence of the angry boy.

Vader stopped his stride about two meters back from the youth, watching him carefully. He could sense the grief in the boy, as well as growing fury--directed at _him_, he realized; the boy's anger was becoming unhinged here in this place of death, especially with the Sith Lord standing right behind him.

"Where is that blasted impostor?" Vader demanded, impatient with the dead end. "And what happened here?"

"It's your fault," the boy hissed, his voice rougher than Vader had yet heard it. "You killed them!"

"What nonsense are you babbling now?" the Sith Lord snorted, nonplussed. "You seem to enjoy blaming me for every ill that's befallen you--"

"It's all your fault!" the youth cried, whirling on him. The force of his anger made Vader's hand twitch unconsciously toward his saber, but he held still as the little Rebel shouted at him. "They were just _farmers!_ They didn't do anything wrong! And your damned stormtroopers came and _killed_ them just because Uncle Owen bought a couple of _droids_ from some _Jawas!_ They didn't know _anything_ about your stupid Death Star! And they're all dead because of you! You and your _stupid, sithspawned Empire!_"

"Shut your mouth, brat!" Vader roared, his anger reacting automatically even as he was struck by realization. He would not feel guilt--he would not _allow_ it!--but there was the stinging truth there; he had given his troops free rein back then, in the desperate search to recover the plans before they fell into the wrong hands. He had not cared what they did beyond his initial orders--track down the droids, and recover the plans at any cost.

Any cost...was apparently very high for some...

The boy was backing away from him, his haunting eyes full of tears and rage. Vader did not pursue him; he himself was rooted in place with anger and old, hidden regrets.

"I'm _glad_ I blew up your stupid battle station! I wish you'd blown up with it!" The boy was railing now, too feverishly emotional to care about the consequences, heedless of the dangers of screaming at a Sith Lord. His Force presence boiled and crackled like a sun gone supernova, almost blinding in its intensity, equal parts light and dark, positive and negative. "I _hate_ you! You killed _everyone!_"

Vader was angry enough to reach out and strangle the boy to silence, but he was too stunned to respond; no one had _ever_ had the guts to shout at him to his face...not in _years_. And the boy's tirade ran too close to his own buried conscience.

_...I killed them I killed everyone who was ever anything to me..._

"Shut up..." he rasped, his voice somehow thin even through the vocoder.

"You killed my family and I hope you die for it!" the boy screamed on. "I hope my father comes and kills you right now! He'll come, you'll see! He'll _finish_ you!"

_Father...coming...?_

"You won't beat him again! He's a Jedi Knight--he _won't_ lose!"

_Owen...Jedi? Impossible...and he's dead..._

"Silence! He was no Jedi, fool," Vader barked. "You said it yourself--Lars was nothing but a farmer!"

The boy didn't even stop to wonder how the Sith Lord knew that name. "Not Uncle Owen," he rasped, hoarse from his shouting, strangely pale and flushed. "My _father_, the Jedi you're chasing. He'll kill you this time!"

_Uncle...Owen...? Chasing--father...?_

"_What?_" Vader's voice cracked out over the sand, sharp as a turbolaser blast.

"That's right! Anakin Skywalker--my father!" There was something triumphant through the anger in the youth's hoarse shout--something he was proud of, despite his rage and despair. "The Jedi Knight you betrayed and tried to kill! He's coming back to _stop_ you for _good!_"

_Skywalker...**father--!**_

All the respirators in the galaxy couldn't have made him draw a breath in that moment. It was like someone had punched him in the gut--he couldn't breathe, couldn't think; his legs had become two stone pillars that refused to budge from their place in the sand. His hands were limp at his sides, anger and outrage forgotten in the face of pure white shock.

_...son...?_

An utter impossibility was staring him in the face with tear-filled eyes and--_her_ face, he could see the traces of her there; it crashed in on him why the boy looked so familiar--her features and his own, blended like two rivers into something, some_one_ new--

--a new life, a life he'd taken--he was _sure_ he'd destroyed it, along with her; she had betrayed him for Obi-wan, hadn't she? Was the child truly even _his?_ He'd destroyed them both--destroyed the child--the little innocent one he'd broken before he'd ever even _seen_--it _was_ his?--and the child was as dead as she was, his master had _said_ so--he killed them both together, and he didn't _care_--his child was _dead_--his child was--

--was right in front of him--_right there_, looking like him and her and both together--a tiny candle of _hope_--

--no, _no_, it could _not_ be true--if it _was_ true, and he'd--

--if _she_ was true--and she _hadn't_ betrayed--

_"...stop. You'll hurt us..." _

_"...Father...help me...!" _

_"...it seems in your anger you killed her..." _

_"...I do nothing to betray you..." _

_"...Ani...I'm pregnant..." _

_"...my motherly intuition..." _

_"...in your anger you killed her..." _

_"...all three of us..." _

_"...you're breaking my heart..." _

_"...you killed her..." _

_"...come back! I love you..." _

_"I **hate** you!" _

_"...**you killed her**."_

"**_NO!_**"

Rage and grief and agony as powerful as the boy's own burst out through the Force in a tidal wave, crashing outward; sand gusted up as though thrown by the wind, outbuildings rattled, bricks toppled, sparks flew. As in the moments after he'd learned of her death, Vader's wrath and pain splintered his surroundings, a cry of anguish that manifested itself as a tangible thing.

The angry and frightened boy cried out as the maelstrom whirled around him, bowling him off his feet. He was tumbled to the ground, but unhurt--nothing but winded, as stone crumbled and metal shrieked all about him. Terror overtaking him at this sudden, inexplicable storm, he rolled to his feet and ran.

Vader hardly saw him go. The Sith Lord was rooted to the sand, his mind screaming at him--all of his demons cut loose, his pains howling through his soul. This was far worse than any dream--no vision he could banish, no old thoughts he could brush off. It was real, inescapable, right in front of him, brought to screaming life by one boy, one word.

_"...father..."_

Could it be?

_...I killed her I killed her..._

Through all the lies and pain and betrayal and death...had this one, single good thing survived?

_...she said she loved me and I killed her..._

Had he been wrong about her? About Obi-Wan?

_...I was jealous and angry and I only saw myself and I killed her I killed them both oh burning skies what am I doing?_

Had Palpatine..._intentionally_ misled him about the rumors between the two?

_What am I doing?_

Focused anger began to return--sourceless, nebulous; at the moment, he wasn't certain who or what to be angry _with_, just that he _was_ angry, and he had to be angry to have any kind of purpose or strength at all. He found his security blanket of tattered old sorrow and woven hate--a safe, black shelter of comforting, whispering dark.

Snarling at himself, Vader forced back his confusion. There was no reason to doubt things he'd known for nearly two decades--his master had given him power, order, and truth; his master had freed him from the limits of the Jedi, shown him the real face of the Council that feared him for his power and tried to destroy him. Shown him the true intentions of the woman who claimed to love him.

But...if he'd been wrong about the child...about her...what else...?

He shook his head--there was no "if." He would get to the bottom of this...this insanity. It was all wrapped up in this crazy little game of chase-the-bantha the impostor had going on. Whoever it was...they aimed to unbalance him, to lead him in circles until he fell into their trap. And this boy...

Perhaps even the boy was a part of it. Rather than a hapless Rebel captive--if he was in league with the agent of this scheme...Vader would soon find his answers. Padme's child or not, he would not allow himself to be led about by the nose, or deceived by some petty impostor Jedi.

_"Anakin Skywalker--my father!"_

If the boy was his son...

His mind tripped and stumbled over that--somehow unable to grasp it even as it was presented to him. The young pilot had practically _screamed_ it at him--raw emotion, pride and longing, and there had been no hint of deception in the Force. There were no lies in the boy.

That boy. Rebel pilot. Young farmer. Raised by his stepbrother, on the very planet he hated--the one place he would never go. Strong in the Force--stronger than any raw youngling he had ever seen. Kept here by Obi-Wan himself--kept ignorant of the Force, untrained, so that his powers would cause no ripple through the galaxy.

Looking out through the darkness toward the lost horizon, Vader set his stare in the direction the boy had run. He could not have gone far, but the wind was picking up and night on Tatooine was filled with dangers. Krayt dragons sometimes hunted close to settlements, and there were always Tusken Raiders about.

He would not see the youth injured or killed before he got to the bottom of this. If the boy _was_ his son...

He couldn't think beyond it; the thought itself, the feelings--it was just too big. Too much. Too bright.

So he did as he always had; he pushed it aside, separated himself from it--retreating to that cold empty place within himself. For now, he would concentrate on recapturing his prisoner, and finding out if the young escapee really was who he claimed to be. He would not allow himself flights of fancy or empty hopes.

Afterward...if it _was_ true...

Then...he would just have to decide his path from there.

* * *

Luke kept running until his body gave out on him, weakened and drained from stress, hunger, and fear. He didn't know how far away from Vader he was, but at least he'd been given a miraculous chance to escape--if he could manage to get far enough away before the dark lord came down on him.

Vader's horrific display of power had hit him like a physical blow, sending him head over heels. It had rocketed through his mind like a thunderbolt, taking the breath from his lungs--he'd never _felt_ anything like that hit his mind before, not ever. Never so much dark rage and deep sorrow and blank shock--incomprehensible regret and grief and agony that he couldn't explain. Luke had no idea how sensitive he truly was--or how much Ben had shielded him for most of his life--but Vader's outburst had been like standing next to ground zero of a proton torpedo blast.

It had been so overwhelming and terrifying that all he could think to do was _run_--get as far away as he could. So he did--he turned tail and scuttled like a womp-rat, never thinking to be ashamed of his cowardice until he fell to the sand minutes or hours or days later, when his burning lungs and aching legs gave out. Then he had time to berate himself for his terror, to kick himself for not standing his ground.

But he _was_ afraid. Scared to death.

His shoulder throbbed still, and his bound wrists stung from being chafed. He was starving, and so thirsty--he'd wanted to refuse Vader's water, but a life lived in the desert would not allow him to ignore it, so he'd taken a few swallows. But that was far from enough, with all the stress and exertions and the hot dry air; he was so tired, his emotions so ragged, that he just wanted to flop down on his bed and cry himself to sleep--

--but his bed was back with Vader, back there with his murdered family and burnt-out home...and he had to keep running, or he'd be caught again.

Now, more than ever, he wished he was a Jedi--like his father or Ben. Then he could've stood up to Vader--could've destroyed him like the Sith deserved. Instead, he was nothing; helpless, broken, fleeing. Vader could swat him like a stingfly without breaking a sweat--and would, too, now that he'd made the dark lord so angry.

The insides of his lungs felt like sandpaper, and it was hard to breathe with the cutting hot wind and biting sand. With a groan, he forced his way back to his feet, shielding his face. He thought he'd run off in the direction of the Grigs' farm; if they were still there, maybe they could at least get him transport to Anchorhead...and from there...

Then he realized if he involved the Grig family, Vader might kill them too if he found out they helped him. But he had nowhere else to go--no other way to get out of the desert. He wasn't even sure if this was the right way--he'd _thought_ it was, when he left, but he'd been so afraid...and now, out here in the middle of nowhere, in the black nothing of a Tatooine night, he couldn't see any lights. The nearest human presences were all kilometers from the Lars home--all the farms were widespread. He could be hours from help.

At least the night was cooler, Luke reasoned, trying to cheer himself up as he dragged one foot after the other, trying to keep his pace a jog. If it was daylight, with the twin suns beating down on him, he wouldn't have lasted even this long. The driving sand was bothersome, though--but a sandstorm would end his troubles and bury what remained. At least then Vader wouldn't catch him.

Then he wondered if he was getting delerious, because he was never usually this morbid. Maybe the hunger was getting to him, or maybe the blaster burn was worse than he'd thought. He couldn't see it--who could look at their own back?

He fell again, and came up spitting sand. His wrists throbbed; it was so hard to balance with his hands bound, and he'd fallen on them too. But he was far more afraid of the huge black nightmare that would be coming after him than of what could happen to him in the middle of the desert at night. He huddled on his knees for a few moments, shivering despite the warmth of the evening, trying to figure out what he was doing.

_Father...are you out there?_ he moaned within. _Are you even alive? Are you waiting for me here somewhere? Was Ben right...did Vader really kill you? Please...answer me..._

No one would answer--he knew that. He was not a Jedi--he didn't know how Ben talked to him even when he was dead. He didn't know how to do any of that. He was just a farmer boy who didn't want to be a farmer--a bush pilot, Rebel pilot, hero...but just Luke, son of a murdered Jedi, who would now have no chance to become a Jedi himself. No one to teach him, no one to help him. No more Jedi. And soon, maybe, no more Luke.

He dragged himself up, walked on--he had no more energy to hurry. He couldn't run any more. Just one step after another across the shifting sand, stumbling. His eyes were blurred, but it was not just the wind that brought the tears.

He had always complained so much, so bitterly, about being stuck on the farm. He loved piloting, but Uncle Owen never let him take his T-16 past Anchorhead, never let him fly further than Beggar's Canyon. It felt like a fence in the sky. And he _loved_ to fly--that fence was a grating, hateful barrier. The farm was like a hole he was stuck in, and in his youthful idealism he'd wanted nothing more than to escape into heroism and high adventure.

But...he _missed_ it, too; he missed Uncle Owen's gruff wisdom, the security of that home--he missed Aunt Beru's kindness, and her warm tenderness...he wished she was here now, wrapping her gentle arms around him and soothing the pain away like she'd done when he was small.

He didn't want to be trapped on the farm...didn't want to be fenced in...but he didn't want them to be _gone_.

And he was sorry for all the rotten things he'd ever done...sorry for the last things he'd said to them...things he could never apologize for now...

Vader's fault--all Vader's fault. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, innocent victims in a war they'd never fought...friends like Biggs and Tay and Jimi and Cal and everyone else shot down, gunned down, blown up by the Empire...his father, betrayed and murdered Jedi Knight...Ben, friend and teacher he'd barely begun to truly know...Vader took them all away, destroyed everything in his path.

Vader was going to kill him now...

He realized he was down on the sand again. When had he fallen? How far had he gone? How long had it been?

He couldn't get up again; his head spun and the world tilted even where he lay. He couldn't go any further--he was lost, somewhere in the dark desert. No strength left, no help, no hope.

_Ben...where are you? Help me..._ Lost, he tried to reach for someone--anyone. Like a grasping infant's hand seeking a parent's fingers, he desperately sought solace. _Father? Are you here? Are you alive? Father, please..._

No words passed through the Force; he was too untrained, too new. But he was strong, and it was that raw strength coupled with pure instinct that caused eddies in the Force. No words--just emotion, pleading.

_Father...help...I'm lost...I hurt...help me!_

He did not know how, but the faintest echo of answer bounced back--a mere whisper compared to Ben's wise voice, but a reply that spoke directly into his heart; a voice he'd never heard, but he recognized--from somewhere, like a dream somehow, it was a voice he _knew_.

_I'm coming._

A burst of weary joy whirled through him, and he tried to pull himself up--but he had no strength left; so tired, so dizzy...should have had more water...

Then, he heard the sound of engines--a ship. Help had arrived. The wash of the ship's arrival kicked up even more sand, and he struggled to breathe--struggled to push himself up, to see. Someone was coming to save him--was it his father? All he could hear was the shrieking of the desert wind.

There was someone--a presence in the night. He could feel it...maybe it was through the Force. He could smell leather and steel and electronics, traces of ozone. There was a large hand on his shoulder, then strong arms lifting him.

He was safe--he knew that somehow. Nothing could get him, and he could go to sleep; no bad men could reach him now. His voice was nothing but a rasp, a whisper, almost lost in the wind.

"..._Father_..."

He slipped into the gray blur of nothing; unconscious, he never felt Darth Vader lift him up as though he were a little child and carry him back into the sheltered confines of the waiting shuttle.

* * *

Han Solo had hoped to sneak by without getting flagged down, but luck was not with him; Her Worship was not letting anybody come or go without drilling them on the necessity of keeping an ear out for Luke. It wasn't that Han didn't care about the kid; but really, the girl was near to obsessed.

"Han!" Leia greeted, zipping out the command room door to waylay him in the hall. "Where are you off to?"

"You haven't heard?" the sometime smuggler inquired, a little surprised she wasn't in the loop on this one. "Ol' Ironsides has me off on some refugee pickup mission. Says one of his contacts in the North Mid-Rim got a request from a family of...I dunno, royals or somebody that needs asylum. I've got a hellova job to do--but that's my area of expertise."

Leia smiled in spite of herself. "General Madine only sends the best, you know. I'm sure you're up to it. You keep doing more and more for us, Han--I can't thank you enough."

"Yeah, well..." Han shrugged, noncommittal. "I'm just puttin' it on your tab, Princess."

"So where exactly are you going?" Leia asked, deciding to ignore the comment. She followed along as Han continued down the hall, heading for the hangar bays. The Alliance was still in space, making their way cautiously to their next safe point.

"Little place called Naboo," Han replied easily. "Small world, big politics--seems they had their day back before the Clone Wars, to hear Madine tell it."

Leia frowned. "Naboo...that's the Emperor's homeworld, I think. Pretty much an Imperial resort nowadays--what are you doing going into a place like that?"

"Why, I'm just makin' a supply shipment, Your Worship," Han informed her with a wink. "And if I happen to pick up a few passengers on my way out...well, what the Imps don't know won't hurt 'em."

"Han..." Leia sighed, stopping him with a gentle hand on his arm. "I know you're capable, but...be careful. Okay? I don't...I don't want to lose you too."

"Hey, Highness-ness," Han cajoled, his tone gentling, "it's me. I don't go lookin' for trouble like the kid. I'll be in and out and back before you know it. It's just a quick job, that's all. All the Imperials on Naboo are fat rich slugs anyway."

This last was spoken in a tone of humor that brought a smile back to her face. "I hope you're right about that one, Captain," she retorted, trying to lighten up. "You come back in one piece--and _that's_ an order."

"Aye aye, your Worship." Chuckling, he strode beyond her toward the _Falcon_, where Chewie waited, warming her up. "That's the plan."

_To be continued..._


	13. Chapter 11

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 11**

It was easy enough to track the boy, despite his weakening Force signature. Once Vader had his thoughts back in order, there was no way he could miss that brilliant presence, even as tired as it had become. The silent cries of raw emotion, like a lostling child, were a beacon that drew him in. He couldn't help reaching out to that searching mental hand--invisible fingers touching, trying to anchor him as the boy's brightness in the Force began to drift.

For a single instant--a breath, a heartbeat that he would never admit to anyone--Vader experienced a rush of sharp panic when the boy's consciousness faded to a dim glow.

Then he chastised himself, landed his ship, and walked out to fetch the errant Rebel pilot. The harshly blowing sand would have been blinding, suffocating, but it never reached him; his mask protected him, shielding his eyes and filtering his breaths. The Rebel lay sprawled on the dune, unconscious and unmoving. Helpless.

He didn't even think before he knelt down and lifted the limp form into his arms. The weight seemed negligible to him, no more than a child; when he set the boy down on the lounge seat in the ship, he found himself unable to draw back, to look away. He was caught--for another breath, a single, fragile moment--looking down at the slim, unmoving form, studying the young, sleeping face.

There it was--there _she_ was...

Then he shook his head, dismissing his pointless musings to the back of his mind. Now was not the time for idle speculation; he would wait to ascertain the absolute truth before deciding what was to be done with the boy. The night sandstorm was rising, and the youth was obviously ill--if he stood around daydreaming any more he would be unable to fly clear of the storm and reach the nearest Imperial presence.

Leaving the boy lying in the lounge, he strode for the cockpit and sent his ship into the air.

According to the computer, the closest Imperial outpost was a small squad post in a nearby suburban town called Anchorhead. But a squad post would not have the facilities he required; he would have to travel all the way in to Mos Eisley, where there was a real garrison with its fully stocked and manned medical wards and facilities.

Obviously, the troops at the Mos Eisley Garrison were eager to help, smartly answering his comm despite the hour, and responding quickly to his orders that there be a med team waiting when he landed. Keeping his thoughts clear of any connection to the boy, Vader guided his shuttle down to the sheltered landing pad where the medics and stormtroopers waited for him.

Darth Vader could not be seen carrying a no-account Rebel pilot. So he met the entourage at the base of the ramp, nodding briefly to the officer in charge who had approached to greet him. "Colonel."

"My Lord Vader," the man replied, performing a smoothly-trained gesture that was somehow a most respectful salute and a bow of complete obeisance at the same time--he was _good_. "The medical team is standing by as per your orders, sir."

"Good, Colonel," Vader replied. "You will find your subject in the rear living quarters of the ship, on the couch. Take him to the medical wing, treat his injuries, and keep him confined. I will...interrogate him at my leisure." He shifted his unfathomable gaze to the medics and their attending guards. "However, you will not injure him in any way. I do not want him harmed--is that clear?"

The gathering straightened in salute. "Yes, sir!" they responded as one.

"Carry on. You," the Sith Lord growled, pulling aside one of the head medics as the rest hustled to do their jobs. "I have additional work for you."

"Sir?" The medic somehow performed a salute, even in the awkward situation he was in. The Colonel of this garrison must be a stickler for parade ettiquette.

"When the prisoner is stable," Vader commanded, pulling a datachip from his belt, "take a blood sample and compare it to the one stored in this chip. I want a full genetic profile on this prisoner--and a midichlorian count, if you have the equipment. When you have this information, you will report it to me--and _only_ me."

One of the medic's eyebrows twitched with surprise that Vader could sense, but the man's professionalism was profound. "Yes sir, Lord Vader. As you command."

Vader let him go, turning away to face the Colonel. "I am here on Imperial business, Colonel," he informed the officer, who still stood at attention. "There is no need for you or your men to inquire about this business, nor to record my visit in the garrison log. When I leave, it will be as if I was never here."

The colonel never even blinked at this drastic change in procedures. "Aye, my Lord. I will have all mention of you, your ship, and your prisoner purged from the logs and the sensor reports. The safety and secrecy of Imperial missions is of utmost priority to me, sir."

"See that it remains that way," Vader responded, striding beyond the man.

The colonel and his aides followed, hurrying to keep up with the Dark Lord's long steps. "We have quarters prepared for you, sir, for as long as you need to stay--"

"That will not be necessary, Colonel," the Sith Lord interrupted curtly, heading into the garrison building. Behind him, he could hear the chattering medics and the hum of a repulsor gurney. "What I need is a console with a connection to the central Imperial computer networks."

"Er, yes sir! Left at this junction, sir."

Trying not to look over his shoulder at the medics scuttling off to the medical wing with his young prisoner, Vader followed the colonel's directions deeper into the garrison, where a computer workstation in the intelligence and observation section was made ready for him. He spent the next forty-five minutes carefully slicing into some Coruscant files and reports to see if anything of note was happening back home--such as the state of his flagship, and if his master had any particular orders regarding him; he had done this often enough before, when he wanted information without having to dig through red tape or put up with a lengthy and pointless call to the Emperor.

Everything seemed in order, at least officially. But there were traces of deleted transmission logs from the Imperial Palace--and a brief flight calculation that indicated that the _Executor_ and several of her attending Star Destroyers were no longer searching for Rebels, but traveling toward Naboo.

Following his path.

Erasing his tracks and closing the connection, Vader sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. Anger still smoldered inside him--dangerous, waiting for an opportunity to flare up at the nearest available target. And as soon as he found something irritating enough to trigger his temper--a guilty party, an offending officer, some incompetent clerk or malfunctioning bit of machinery--he was going to give in to a spectacular fit of rage. The last few days' events had done nothing whatsoever to calm his ever-waiting temper.

Knowing that there was a traitor aboard his flagship only made it worse. _Someone_ on his ship had betrayed him, and now his master obviously knew of his disobedience. He wondered who the guilty party could be; not Piett, certainly--the man was intelligent and loyal, and Vader had never sensed deceit in him--and Ozzel was probably too stupid to consider countermanding his orders, even as oily as the Admiral was. Perhaps there was an Imperial Special Operations spy amongst his crew.

Although the thought that his master would have such little faith in him as to plant spies--_overseers_--among his crew...

A slightly-nervous presence approaching behind him drew his thoughts out of their downward spiral of ire--for the moment--as he straightened up and half-turned to acknowledge the officer saluting him. It was one of the colonel's aides, standing smartly at parade attention.

"I beg your pardon, my Lord," the aide said smartly. "You wished to be notified of the prisoner's status, sir."

Something very small within the Sith Lord's heart lurched at the man's words--a tiny thing that somehow encompassed fear and worry and hope all at once. He quickly quashed it with his annoyance at the entire situation and rose to his full height to regard the nervous officer. "Continue," he growled.

"Yes sir!" The aide saluted yet again. "The chief medical officer reports that the prisoner's condition is stable. Also, one of the lieutenant medics wishes to send word that he has compiled the report you ordered, my Lord."

"Very well," Vader rumbled, pushing aside a trace of eagerness. "Take me to the medical bay."

The aide obeyed quickly. The walk was in truth quite short, as the garrison was not very large--but to the anxious Sith Lord, the journey seemed to take an eternity; endless lengths of gray corridors and stark halls stood between him and his destination, full of marching stormtroopers and hustling officers. His impatience grew with every step, making his guide more nervous as the Dark Lord seemed to loom even darker beside him.

Then they were turning the corner into the medical area, into a sterile, well-lit corridor that hosted offices and wards--and Vader was about to hear the truth about something he had spent the last two hours trying _not_ to think about. And suddenly, the trip was much too short, because he still wasn't ready to think about it.

But he was a Sith Lord, the Emperor's Right Hand, and it would not do to bolt off down the hallway in front of all the medics and officers simply because he'd found himself struck with a sudden and unfamiliar case of nerves. So he drew upon his anger and irritation once again to shove the hesitation aside--_really_, he was a grown man, not a stumbling boy; he was supposed to be past such frivolous emotional nonsense. He wasn't like that any more--

_--like a scared and confused young man whose wife had just told him, and he was terrified because it was so new and so huge, and it would be impossible to keep their secret here now--and oh Force he wasn't ready for this, it was too fast, too much, he'd only just returned and he was still getting used to being Husband because they were always separate for so long--but now, oh skies above, he was supposed to be **Father** and he just wasn't ready--a **baby**, a child, that could blow their secret life wide open--terror and wonder and realizing... _

_...realizing...this was more than himself; it was frightening, and amazing, and...more than he'd ever felt before--they'd made something, he and Padme; their love had made life, and that was wonderful no matter how scared he was and joy leaped up through his fear--they had something more than just themselves now, they would be a **family** and they'd be loved and happy together and he'd do anything to keep them safe-- _

_--until he ripped them all apart with his own two hands--_

Vader didn't realize he'd stopped in his tracks just outside the med ward door until he finally heard the aide querying him apprehensively. Glaring at the man--though in truth, he was more shaken by his own thoughts--he brushed past him dismissively and strode into the ward, shoving down old memories to concentrate on the present as the door slid shut behind him.

The lieutenant medic he'd given his orders to stood beside the med-bed, checking the monitors for its occupant's vitals and recording them on his datapad. He looked up as the Sith Lord entered, coming to attention though he couldn't quite salute with his hands full. "Lord Vader, sir," he acknowledged.

"Report, medic," Vader snapped, forcibly keeping his gaze away from the still figure on the bed. "His condition?"

"Yessir," the man responded, stepping around the med-bed to the console in the wall, where he brought up a holo-display--a mess of medical readouts, only a few of which Vader could decipher. "He is stable and relatively healthy, my Lord. We have him on fluids and a light nutrient drip, as he came in with low blood sugar and a fair amount of dehydration. Also, the wound on the back of his shoulder, apparently a neglected and quite recent blaster burn, became somewhat inflamed and has caused a low-grade fever. We have treated the injury, and his temperature is returning to normal as we speak, sir. All told, we expect a complete recovery with no complications."

_He'll be fine..._

"Very good," Vader rumbled, refusing to allow that shadow of relief to sag his shoulders. He would allow _nothing_ until he knew for sure. "And the information I ordered?"

"Aye, sir." The medic nodded, and hit a few keys on the console. The holo-image shifted again, this time to something that looked like a pair of DNA helixes and far too many columns of numbers and symbols. "According to the blood specimen I took from the patient, sir, and the sample you provided on the data chip, there is a strong genetic match. The chip sample is most likely the paternal donor."

_The father._

Vader wanted to sit down. But there was only one chair in the room and he was _not_ going to allow the medic to see how he had been affected.

But...Vader had already known the truth. He had _already known_. He had known since the young pilot had flung the words at him--no matter how much he'd tried to ignore it, to push it away. The Force showed the truth--and he could see it in the boy--

_--our boy--_

"And the midichlorian count you requested, sir," the medic was going on, oblivious to the Sith Lord's turmoil. "I'm not sure if our equipment is working properly, since it _is_ slightly outdated, so I ran the test several times. But I still got rather outrageous results, so I believe the machine needs to be recalibrated--"

That got Vader's attention, jolting him. "What? What result?"

The medic glanced uncomfortably at his datapad. "The count was over twenty thousand, sir. Beyond what the testing machine can rate. That's clearly an error, sir--I'm afraid I can't give you accurate results."

_Power. He has my power. Twenty thousand..._

"No matter," Vader replied, glad for the vocoder in his armor so that the medic could not hear the croak in his voice. "I have the information I need."

"Yes sir," the man replied, still confused. "Er...all that's left is for the prisoner to wake. I can administer a stimulant if you would like to proceed immediately."

Vader's gaze fixed sharply on the medic; under normal circumstances, that _was_ what he would do. Under normal circumstances, he wanted to interrogate as soon as they knew the prisoner would live. Under normal circumstances, he would not wait to acquire any information and execute--

"No," he told the medic, expression hidden behind his mask. "Leave us. I will deal with this one myself."

"Yes, my Lord," the medic replied smartly, switching off the console and heading for the door. "Comm if you require anything."

Vader did not even watch him leave. As much as he'd tried _not_ to acknowledge the boy previously, now he could not tear his eyes from the motionless form on the bed. He did not move, even as the door hissed shut after the medic and the monitors around the bed continued their steady rhythm.

Rhythm; soft, regular _beeps_, as measured as his own mechanical breaths--the boy's heart, quiet in sleep. A steady beat in time to the gentle thrum in the Force that cried _Alive! Alive!_ with every pulse.

_He's alive..._

For the first time in a long time indeed, Vader was not sure what to feel. He was almost numb, like shock, but then...he _wasn't_; something was overflowing his old barriers, filling him in a way that almost _hurt_. Anger just would not _work_­--at the moment, he could not even find it. All his old and long-forgotten joy and fear and anticipation had long since been smothered away, victims of crushed hopes and shattered dreams--for a miracle that was to come, then was destroyed...

...and now, suddenly, was real again.

_My child is **alive**..._

For a moment he was caught in a swirl of memory and reality again--on that cusp where he could _remember_, could _feel_, and those forgotten emotions tried to rise again, battered phoenixes blazing up once more, piercing veils of hate and reminding him what _hope_ felt like--

_--I didn't kill him--oh Force--**I didn't kill him**--_

Hope. Profound relief. Tatters of old joy. And he found himself standing at the boy's bedside with no memory of having taken those strides, dark gloves gripping the rails as if to hold himself upright--looking down at the miracle he thought he'd destroyed, that he thought he'd long since finished mourning and put far behind him...

But he _hadn't_, and he _couldn't_--never could--because it was that kernel of hate and grief and rage and sorrow that had kept him alive, kept him going, kept him powerful and invulnerable until one of the very sources of that kernel shattered it and cast it aside.

Because his son was alive, and the universe was no longer empty. Alive, a bright spot in the Force that he couldn't believe he had missed all these years. Alive--a piece of himself and of her, part of them both, a terrible wonder nearly as awesome as it had been the first time he knew it. He could see it; he could see himself, and her--there was her brow and his nose and her lips and his chin...so clear, even after all this time...

_He's alive...I didn't kill him..._

Memory; what he recalled of those last hours on Mustafar were jagged, crystal sharp--her face, her tears, eyes filled with heartbreak and betrayal. Rage fueling the blue sabers' clash. Fire and numbness and pain. His former master, closer to tears than he'd ever seen. Hate.

Horrible, empty grief. He had killed her--

_I felt her--she was alive--_ The shard of memory stabbed him, reopening a near-mortal wound. _My master told me I killed her...but I felt her...!_

His mechanical grip tightened on the bed rails until he nearly warped the metal. Something wasn't right--something didn't match--

_My son is alive--and he couldn't have survived if she-- He's alive, she had to have been...but he said I killed her, I killed her but I felt her...he said she was dead right there, I killed her--but I didn't, my son is alive--Obi-Wan was there--Obi-Wan must've saved her, he must've--_

The thought of Obi-Wan sharpened everything, shattered the haze of confusion, focused into a source of anger. Anger--hatred--power--_control_.

_Obi-Wan_. The man who had done this to him--turned her against him, betrayed him, left him to die. The man he had spent almost two decades hating.

The man who had somehow brought her away from that fiery planet, and kept his child alive...

Hatred faltered.

_"You were my brother, Anakin! I loved you!"_

Enough to come to tears over his demise--enough to save his son--

The tussle between rage and regret was brief, but fierce; he clung desperately to the only things he'd known for so many years--the betrayal, the anger, the resentment and grief and revenge. They had been the constants in his life for so long he was almost afraid to function without them. Without his passion for vengeance and hate, he was powerless. There was nothing good left he could summon.

But...that scrap of old joy, half buried, was still there, and refused to be drowned again... _My son is alive!_

Something was still wrong, he realized, even as he retook his footing--found his balance in power and focus once more. He was missing a piece--a vital piece of the puzzle that connected all the other pieces--himself, his two masters, his son, his wife, and those horrific events on Mustafar so long ago. Something didn't match up--life, or death, or murder, or betrayal. Someone was wrong.

Someone had _lied_.

His master had said she was dead, and he'd never doubted, even when his own senses had told him she'd been alive when he left her.

_"...it seems in your anger you killed her."_

But his son was alive and well; an unborn infant could never have survived the journey from Mustafar to any sort of hospital or medical facility if the mother was already dead. Obi-Wan must have taken her, taken care of them, saved them...

_Is she...could **she** be...alive...?_

If his knees had still been organic, they might've given out on him then; something surged that he hadn't felt in years, taking the breath from him even through mechanical regulation. Hope flared again.

But only for a moment--because it couldn't be true. Everything he'd ever known, everything his master had ever told him--it would be shaken if she were alive. He would have known--she would have come to him--something, _anything_. She had been dead for so long he could not even begin to think of her as alive. He would not allow the possibility.

It would mean he had been wrong about _everything_...

She couldn't be alive. There was a tomb on Naboo for a mother and child. A funeral recording in his personal quarters on Coruscant. A body that all of Theed had seen, that her parents had cried over. A master who told him he had killed her in his fit of rage on Mustafar. She was dead; had been dead for years.

But his son was somehow _alive_.

And the brightening in the Force was all the warning he got, sharpening his focus and bringing him back to the present; he looked down at faintly quivering eyelashes and heard a soft moan. Then the hazy eyes were open and finding his own and the whole galaxy went still; everything was frozen, even his own breath, for just an instant in time.

The boy was awake.

_To be continued..._

* * *

_Author's Note: My sincerest apologies for the delay, on this and my other works. I am in the throes of university once again, so I do what I can. Thank you all for your patience._


	14. Chapter 12

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 12**

The peace only lasted for a moment--a breath, a heartbeat, a single sleepy blink.

Then, recognition.

The boy's eyes were suddenly huge in his face and with a short, sharp cry he jerked away from the tall black figure at his bedside, struggling to sit up and gain distance but prevented by the bed's restraints. Shock and terror rolled out from the youth like an icy tidal wave, mixing with Vader's own dark and freezing the room to a stilled tableau--the Rebel pilot, straining to get away, face pale and pitifully young; the Sith Lord, taking an involuntary step back and releasing the bed rails, for a moment startled at the boy's violent reaction. The Force between them fairly shrieked with the youth's surprised dismay and naked fear.

And during those first instants, Vader was again unsure what to feel--and more certainly, unsure what to say. His tongue felt thick, wooden, and he couldn't seem to draw a deep enough breath to speak, despite his ever-regulated respiration. Once again he was glad for the mask that hid his expression; his mind swirled with a million things he _wanted_ to say--a million things he _could_, but there were so many they formed a logjam in his throat.

_"Cease this nonsense at once!" _

_"Don't be afraid." _

_"Stop struggling before you injure yourself further." _

_"I won't hurt you." _

_"You will answer me quickly and truthfully." _

_"I am your father." _

_"You are my son!"_

Instead, he turned away. The terror in the young pilot's expression stung somewhere deep inside--it was the same look _she_ had worn, in those last few moments when his rage had overtaken him and he'd had her at his mercy...

_Get ahold of yourself!_ he ordered his own mind sternly, hands fisting at his sides. If he could handle the shock of his own wife's betrayal, he could handle dealing with a Rebel pilot who happened to be his offspring.

It was painfully fitting, somehow, that the son shared the mother's traitorous tendencies--a gift from Obi-Wan as well, no doubt; leading the boy away from him, trying to undermine what should have been a strong bond. Teaching the boy to hate him, telling an impressionable child that his dear father had been murdered by Darth Vader. _Lying_ to the boy, so that he would grow to become a powerful Jedi and carry out their revenge on the Sith--

His fists tightened until they creaked. The hells-damned Jedi--once again they betrayed him using those nearest and dearest to him! First they turned his wife; now, they were raising his son to become a weapon of vengeance against him.

But not yet, he realized, his hands loosening a bit. He'd found the boy in time--he was still untrained, untainted by the weakness of the Jedi. The only thing to repair was the tattered truth...to own the boy as his, to teach him, bring him home...

And yet, as he turned to face the young pilot and felt the fear and hate and despair, saw the frantic struggles, the frightened trembling--something twisted inside him. Words that had been at the tip of his tongue died before they could be voiced. The youth was terrified of him--hated him, blamed him for so much--

_"I **hate** you!"_

No--he could not say the words--he could not feel even more of the boy's shock and disgust--

_For stars' sake, **stop it!**_

And as the boy gave one more jolt of fear and surprise and went stock-still, Vader realized he'd snapped out that thought aloud. Now, the little Rebel lay frozen as far away from him as the bed's restraints allowed, staring up at him with eyes like a cornered animal.

"That's better," Vader went on, unwilling to let his inner turmoil show up in awkward silence, quickly assuming his usual air of superiority and command. "Your struggles at this point only worsen your condition."

The fear was still all-pervaisive, like a chill in the air, but the youth was bringing up his own anger and resentment to borrow strength--that much was obvious through the Force. He swallowed hard once, twice, and set his jaw, trying to glare ferociously at his captor but only really managing to come off as a scared, angry, helpless child. "I won't tell you anything," he insisted.

"I doubt that," Vader responded, keeping his distance--not because of his own feelings, he reminded himself firmly, but to keep from sparking off another struggle from the Rebel. It was easier to keep his footing if he simply thought of the boy as a Rebel pilot.

One he happened to share a blood relationship with...

He scowled at himself again. "I did not bring you here for interrogation. If that were the case, you would have found yourself in the prison medbay surrounded by droids."

The boy's eyes narrowed, as he jerked one arm against the heavy weave-strap restraint on his wrist. "What's the difference?"

"You're not being awakened by stimulants and electric shock," Vader rumbled darkly, affronted by the youth's lack of respect for his kindness, "nor are you being injected with truth serums and subjected to mind probes."

"And that makes _such_ a difference." Anger and fear still ran through the boy's Force sense like wind through trees, stirring everything, but coupled with the inescapable restraints and the presence of the Sith Lord in the room, a saddened resignation began to filter through, along with morbid hope. "So...what happened back there? Did you...kill him? Did he get away?"

"Kill--?" Vader paused. _Kill who? Anakin Skywalker? He vanished years ago--it doesn't **matter** what this child thinks--_ "Neither," he responded, feeling the irritation of slipped prey once again. "I found no one--yet. But I will. And you, apparently, are the key to drawing this Jedi out."

With a sigh that was almost a moan, the youth turned his head away--pain shot through his bright presence in the Force, alerting Vader to the possibility of his injuries having been exacerbated by his struggles. But no--the pain was emotional, lodged in the anger and fear the young pilot was putting out in waves.

_Why would he--?_ For an instant, he was confused--then struck. _He thinks I'm hunting his father._

He felt a strange sort of awe, even faint relief, that his half-orphaned son would regard him so well, would be so loyal to a man he'd never met--loyal to the memory of Anakin Skywalker the galaxy had known; the ace star pilot, warrior of the Republic, powerful Jedi Knight. There was a longing he could _feel_ in the boy that matched his own--a faint hope as dim as a candle, hidden by fear and dread.

But greater still was the brief snap of pain within himself--the boy hated him, hated the face and name he now wore. And hated him still even more for the deaths of his family and because he now believed that Darth Vader was hunting down Anakin Skywalker with the intent to destroy him.

_He'll soon be set straight. He will know the truth from the lies and he will help me eliminate the imposter--_

And again, even as he opened his mouth to say the words, he couldn't get them past the end of his tongue. The truth would set him free, but it would tear apart the only father the boy had ever known--an image, a storybook figure, a child's hero. Vader knew how much the boy hated him--he could _feel_ it radiating through the Force-strong youth in a way he'd never felt from any Jedi--and he knew how the whole galaxy looked upon him. He was not stupid, nor ignorant, and he knew--he _knew_--he had done things in his lifetime that many of even the worst men would not contemplate. He _knew_...no matter how much was done in the name of peace and order--_he knew_ he'd done things...

Telling the youth who he was...would destroy the gossammer image of himself the boy held--a memory he had tried to forget. The man he had once been--never wanted to be again. A past he wanted to erase forever. But this young pilot--this fragile, frightened man-child--was a piece of that past, a huge piece. And even as the words hung ready in his mouth, for some damnably unfathomable reason he just could not bring himself to shatter that thin image the boy still clung to.

Maybe...in some hidden part of himself he would forever deny...he wanted someone to remember him as he had once been--when life had been kinder and there were still simple joys and he knew what happiness felt like...a time when someone had _loved_ him...

And the truth...would break his son's spirit. He knew _that_ too, no matter how much the realization cost him, no matter how he wished he didn't care.

_And I **don't** care, hells burn it!_

He squared his shoulders and forced away the doubt, replacing it with inner iron. He could always use the information later, if the need arose to bring the boy more firmly into line. With the right persuasion, the boy's intense loyalty to his father-image could be transferred to Vader himself, and such a hold on the young pilot would be quite useful. The shock of such a revelation would also cripple and disarm the youth's rebelliousness--best save it for a situation that would serve the greatest advantage to him.

At least, that's how he rationalized it to himself. He was not merely afraid to destroy the dreams of a child.

"The Jedi is not your concern," Vader said at last, even as the boy still refused to look at him. "For now, you will rest and recuperate. Then I will continue my search. I still have use for you."

"You don't need me to kill Jedi," the youth murmured defiantly. "You've been doing it long enough without me."

"That is irrelevant," Vader responded, half-turning away. "You are the key to this." _In more ways than you know._

"I _won't_ help you."

"I don't _need_ your help!" the Sith Lord snapped, the abruptness in his harsh mechanical voice making the boy flinch visibly.

"Then what do you want with me?" the boy all but snarled, somehow plaintive through the despair in his Force signature.

Vader paused, his mouth half-open to form a retort--but what _did_ he want? At first, only to find the Jedi impostor and capture an annoying Rebel pilot--but now...

Now he had the truth. Now he wanted to keep this boy, to know him, to teach him and give him the truth as well--this strong, talented boy, his son, his legacy...

_I do want to know more about him,_ he admitted to himself, reluctantly. _He is my son--he is strong, worthy...he will learn the ways of the Force, know its true power, and he will stand at my side and we'll rule the galaxy together...he is my **son**, and I...and I... _

_I don't even know his name._

The realization crashed in on him, almost shocked him. He didn't know anything about the youth--_nothing_; "Rebel pilot" was the only label he'd ever had for the boy, and all the information he had was contained in a tiny datafile in his office on the _Executor_. And all that had was a readout of an X-wing fighter's transponder signal, the date and method of the Death Star's destruction, and a few theories on which Rebel cell the pilot belonged to; fragments, shards of impersonal data.

Even now, looking right at him, he didn't even know what color his son's eyes were; he could guess that they were blue--but they might also be gray, or green, or hazel...

"What is your name?" he demanded suddenly, facing the youth.

The boy gave him a confused, distressed glance and looked away again, jaw tightening.

"I already know _who_ you are, _Skywalker_," the Sith Lord stated impatiently. "You made it abundantly clear during your tirade earlier. Now tell me your name!" When the youth still refused to answer, Vader smashed his fist against a console panel hard enough to leave a dent--causing the young pilot to jump abruptly. "Speak!"

"Luke," the boy answered shakily, his voice a husk, staring warily at his black-gloved fist. "I-it's Luke."

"Luke..." Vader went still, letting the name roll over his tongue. _Luke Skywalker. My son's name is Luke... _

_And he is **alive**._

Those old feelings threatened to rebel against his control once again and he turned away, unsure of how sensitive Luke was and if the boy could pick up on anything from him through the Force. He tried to push them aside and kept his head up, stepping away from the bed. "You will remain here and rest," Vader informed the youth briskly, thanking the steady deep tone of his vocoder. "I will collect you when you have recovered and we will resume our little...search. In the meantime, you will not give the medics and technicians any problems, or I will deal with you more harshly."

"I won't help you kill him!" Luke snarled, thrashing against his restraints again as the Sith Lord strode out the door. "I _won't_ let you hurt my father! I'll fight you! I'll stop you--!"

The door closed behind him, cutting off the boy's furious, desperate cries--but not the anger and despair that rippled out through the Force like river rapids, churning and turbulent. Full of anguish and grief and helplessness--and rage, all directed at him.

Vader found himself with one hand against the metal frame of the door, leaning there, feeling like he'd just run a marathon on a low-oxygen world despite his respirator--something splitting inside him with old remembered agonies and broken hopes that he fought to hold back, new pain he had not yet learned to harness. He suddenly felt old, tired...alone...

His son was alive, and with him now, but the boy did not know him and never would; his son _hated_ him for the death of his family--deaths he blamed _himself_ for when he let himself admit it--a gulf he'd carved with his own hands and a wound that might never heal--

_"I **hate** you!"_

He reached to find his cold, empty center once more--because he _didn't_ care, he _wouldn't_--and drew himself up, stood tall again, and strode away from the medbay without ever once looking back.

* * *

"Princess! There you are," General Rieekan greeted as the young woman strode briskly into the communications bay.

"You said this was important, General?" Leia responded, coming to his side. "I need to get back to helping the supply sergeants--we're having logistics difficulties with some of the container ships--"

"I'm afraid we may have a problem, your highness," the general interrupted grimly, facing her instead of the communications console. "We're getting reports of Imperial Fleet movements from several of our scouting vessels. Most of the First Fleet is combing the space near our former base in search of our whereabouts, but the command ship and several Destroyers broke off from the main groups and changed course."

Something cold--like a warning fist of ice--settled into Leia's stomach. Her folded arms dropped to her sides, and her businesslike facade gave way to concern. "Where are they headed?" she asked quietly, fearing she already knew.

"As near as trajectory tells," Rieekan replied, "they're going to the Naboo System."

Her fists tightened almost without her consent. _Of course. Just when Han's headed there._ "Coincidence?" she wondered aloud. "Or did something tip them off?"

The general's expression was as puzzled as it could be, given his constant air of command. "We thought perhaps they were after Lieutenant Skywalker, which would give us some hope that he's alive and that we could locate him..." He paused, glancing regretfully at the princess. "But it's been too long since Skywalker's disappearance for them to just suddenly decide to change course in the middle of their search. They must have received orders."

Leia's teeth clenched. For the _Executor_ to move out of a high-priority sweep of surrounding systems for a known Rebel command cell, the orders would have to come from high up indeed--it took the Emperor himself to give orders to Darth Vader. And it was well-known over the years that His Imperial Majesty had a penchant for second-guessing the Alliance's every move, always somehow one step ahead of whatever they planned.

Which was why Luke's success at the Battle of Yavin was both a stunning surprise and a huge victory for the Alliance. They had never _won_ a battle like that--an overwhelming defeat of the Empire's forces, instead of a hit-and-run scramble to harry the enemy and escape with their lives. Not in nearly twenty years.

And just in the last six months, they had gained new ground they'd never taken before.

The name _Skywalker_ was bringing hope to the battlefield once more, just like the stories her father had sometimes told her--rare, forbidden stories of the Jedi Knights, and the Hero of the Clone Wars, a man who knew no fear...

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Leia turned her troubled gaze to General Rieekan once again. "Can we warn Captain Solo?"

"Too risky," he replied, shaking his head sadly. "If all goes well, he should be leaving the system by the time the convoy reaches Naboo...but attempting to sneak a transmision to him through Imperial space might compromise his mission."

"I see..." Swallowing, Leia glanced down. "There's nothing we can do but wait, is there?" _Again...again I can't do anything..._

Rieekan nodded, touching her shoulder gently in encouragement. "Solo's a smart man, Princess, and a tough one to beat. He'll make it."

She managed a wan smile in reply. "Thank you, General," she mumbled, turning to leave. "Keep me appraised of the situation."

"Yes, your Highness."

Once out the door, standing in the quiet, stark, gray-paneled corridor, she wrapped her arms around herself for a moment and felt terribly small. In just the last few days, it felt as though her world were falling apart--losing Luke, her dearest friend; the wonderfully kind, innocent farmboy who listened to her rant and held her when she was upset and made her laugh when she was depressed. And now Han and Chewie were in equal danger--slipping through her fingers, to be as lost as Luke if the Imperials caught them...

Without them, she felt horribly alone; the ship's corridor was a cold and empty place without her closest friends.

But she was still the Princess of Alderaan, heir to her father's life work, the one so many people looked to for an anchor in this time of awful tribulation. So she wiped the first and only tear from her cheek, stood up straight, and pressed on--marching for the cargo bays as if heading for a routine inspection, betraying not a trace of her inner turmoil. No matter how hard it got, she had to be strong; there was more at stake here than her own happiness.

On the outside, she was the Rebel Princess--tough, fearless, commanding. But on the inside, she was just Leia, and she was all alone.

_Luke...oh, Luke, where are you? I wish you were here...!_

_To be continued..._


	15. Chapter 13

_Required Disclaimer: All characters, vehicles, and situations herein are the intellectual property of George Lucas and Co. Not mine. I'm borrowing without permission, and making no profit. Though I wouldn't mind taking that X-wing for a spin...pretty please?_

_**A/N:** I should probably be considered 95 percent hiatused, until at least June or July of 2008. I'm putting as much of myself as I can into getting my degree by the coming spring, so I'm sad to say all fic has taken a back seat to this priority. I'm not saying I won't work on anything, just that we'll be seeing more of the same lack of activity for a while longer. Sorry all! Happy holidays, and I'll be back soon._

**Chasing Dreams**  
_by Becky Tailweaver_

**Chapter 13**

Luke Skywalker was sitting alone and miserable in an Imperial medbay--assumedly still on Tatooine, but he couldn't be sure. He wasn't even positive how long he'd been there; no chrono was immediately visible and he'd been unconscious for part of that time. The lack of a window only contributed to the glaring white timelessness of the room, making him feel almost as if he'd stepped out of reality.

_Unreal_. It was the only word he could think of to describe his current situation. His captor had been correct in that regard, at least; he was a valuable prisoner, so what reason was there that he shouldn't be, at this very moment, enjoying the hospitality of an Imperial interrogation cell? He had no illusions about what they did to captured Rebels--Leia still had nightmares, sometimes, from her ordeal...

He was Luke Skywalker--son of a Jedi, destroyer of the Death Star, ace Rebel pilot, close to the Alliance command structure; any Imperial worth his uniform would see him as a veritable fountain of information.

And yet...here he was. Alive, unmolested, and comfortable--physically, at least--with not a torture droid nor interrogator in range. Even his captor--_Vader_, his mind groaned still--had not returned to torment him at all since he'd first awakened. A medic had come by a few times--checking up on him, removing the IV, commenting on his improving condition--and a guard had escorted him silently to the refresher to relieve himself. Nothing terrible.

And after sitting there, glaring steel-jawed at the medbay door for quite some time, daring the Sith Lord to come back, he'd finally succumbed to sheer exhaustion; even his defiance had its limits, and the mind can only stay in stress mode for so long--and after hours upon hours of _nothing happening_, he'd eventually just nodded off.

He'd been asleep for an indeterminate period--and even then, nothing bad had happened. The worst complaint he could think up so far was being tied down to the bed. And the near heart attack from awakening to the terrifying sight of a Dark Lord of the Sith standing over his bed that first time around. The stuff of his worst nightmares, to be sure--childish though it was, the image of his father's murderer was akin to the Boogeyman to his subconscious.

And he was getting hungry. Since the Imperials had suddenly seen fit to become...well, _nice_ wasn't the word--the tied-to-the-bed part sort of negated the nice--at least _civil_...maybe they'd decide to feed him as well. After all, they'd given him nearly everything else--shelter, a comfortable bed, medical treatment...

_Unless,_ he thought, for what had to be the hundredth time, _they're just softening me up for what comes later. Or they expect me to be grateful for a bacta patch and a soft pillow._

Having never quite been an Imperial prisoner before, he wasn't exactly certain what to expect. However, from Leia's experiences and a few tales among his peers, he was sure that quite a bit more discomfort should be involved.

But as much as his physical needs were met, discomfort was an understatement where his mind was concerned. He'd run himself in circles all day--night--whatever it was now, wondering what was going to happen. Nothing so far, apparently--but he had been captured _personally_ by Darth Vader, and had then _stupidly_ revealed himself to the Sith Lord...

They already knew he was a top Alliance pilot. Now they knew who he was, possibly what he'd done--and who his father was, and what _he_ could be. And even a kid from backwater Tatooine knew that being Jedi was a death sentence in the Empire.

_And I didn't even know I could be...until Ben..._

He'd been over it in his head a thousand times, since he'd learned the truth so many months ago--since his world had been forcibly tilted and the only family he'd ever known brutally murdered. His years of resenting Uncle Owen's endless resistance--the barriers, the rules, the limits and the fights--seemed so petulant and ungrateful. He'd understood then, finally, what it all meant; why his guardians just couldn't seem to let him _go_--why they hadn't even told him the truth.

They'd been protecting him--all his life, keeping his father's Jedi legacy at bay, where it couldn't hurt him. Keeping him ignorant, because he was a naive, wide-eyed kid running wild through a town where Imperials marched daily and one wrong word could cost him everything. Keeping him home, far away from the Academy and the Imperial centers, where his name would be known and his life would be forfeit...

They'd been protecting him. Droids or no droids...the Imperials had not learned his name that day at the Lars farm. They'd _died_ protecting him.

And no matter what quarrels they'd ever had he could never fail to be grateful to them for that--for everything. In hindsight, all his rebellion, his backtalk, his tempers and indignation seemed...small, petty, childish. And maybe they'd _both_ been wrong; maybe Uncle Owen hadn't managed it all correctly--maybe by now Luke could've handled the truth, and made their frictions less harsh. But he would never forget how they had spent nearly two decades sheltering a child that was not their own; a deathly risk, a weighty secret, a _Jedi_ child, to be protected from Vader and the Empire--a tall order, especially for two simple farmers. And despite the restlessness of his teenage years, he had been _happy_. Gentle Aunt Beru and gruff Uncle Owen...they'd been a family, such as they were--even if he'd never realized that all their secrets and mercies had been for _him_.

And he'd gone and rendered a lifetime's worth of effort and sacrifice completely meaningless--in a heartbeat, in one angry outburst, with just a few words, everything his guardians had _died_ for had gone up in smoke.

Now he was held captive by the very man they'd tried to save him from, awaiting an unknown future. A fate likely the same as his father's.

_Unless..._ Hope still flickered--despite the hours of tedium and uncertainty. _Unless he's still alive. Vader didn't find anyone--would he even be looking if he was __**sure**__ he killed my father back then? If he's alive...there's still a chance..._

Once again, his thoughts had cycled back from depression to optimism, and he gave the bed restraints yet another yank. They held, like they always had, but they gave him something tangible to fight. With no interrogators and no Vader to rage against, the fury and defiance that had supported him before had grown thin and wan, leaving him with a timeless, anticipatory dullness that freed his mind to far too much introspection.

Too much time to think--to worry, to wonder, to plan, to berate himself, to hope. And even after far too many hours, he _still_ hadn't managed to come up with a reasonable method of escape that didn't involve watching his father swoop in heroically to strike down the Dark Lord, and end with them riding off into the sunset--or other such holodrama nonsense.

_Grow up,_ he scolded himself, yanking on the restraints again--almost becoming a regular pattern, like breathing. Slow, steady--_breathe, yank...breathe, yank_--and a source of at least a little noise in the quiet hum of the medbay. But no one could blame him for his optimism, his hope--the stories he'd heard since joining the Alliance, like nothing his uncle had ever told him...stories of the _Warrior_, the _Jedi Knight_, the _Hero_...so much, so many; he'd listened wide-eyed and rapt and awed, begging for more...

He was helplessly swept up in boyish dreams of what could have been and what might be--and with the faintest possibility that his father was _alive_--

Absorbed in his expectant ruminations, he completely missed the sounds of approach from outside, until the med ward door slid open--loud in the oppressing stillness. Luke jumped, huge-eyed and wary as reality intruded once again and a stream of men poured in. Several were trooper guards, one was a medic, and another appeared to be an officer--a lieutenant, if his memory of Imperial insignia were correct.

"What do you want?" he snapped out defensively, startled, though he didn't really expect a reply. He wondered if this was the part where he became a real prisoner.

The medic approached him directly, without regard for his personal space. The man hemmed and hawed over the instruments reading him around the bed, then reached in and pulled down the shoulder of the white medbay robe he wore, poking at his bacta-bandaged wound. Luke flinched away, but put up little fight--it was rather futile anyway, and probably in his best interests to let the doctor work.

"His temperature has normalized," the medic announced, stepping back, "and the burn is healed. He can keep it under bacta for another day or so to help the skin stay supple and avoid scarring, but the worst is done with."

"Thank you, Doctor," said the lieutenant, taking the medic's place with a bundle under his arm. "That will be all."

With a nod, the nameless doctor vanished out the door again.

The officer set the tan bundle on the med-bed beside him, then gestured to one of the guards. The trooper stepped forward, expressionless, and began to unlock the bed restraints.

"The doctor has cleared you," the lieutenant announced in a no-nonsense tone--speaking to _him_, Luke realized off-centeredly, which felt odd because no one had spoken directly to him in hours. "You will dress yourself quickly, and you may use the 'fresher if you have need. A meal has been prepared for you."

Freed from the straps--and a little stiff for having been stuck there so long--Luke scooted off the side of the bed and hauled himself to his feet. "What's going on?" he asked, heart pounding once more as things were _moving_ again and he didn't know what was going to happen now. "What do you want from me?"

"It's not what I want so much as what Lord Vader wants," the lieutenant replied--not kindly, but not derisively either; the man seemed almost as perplexed as Luke, though he didn't really show it. "He seems to be quite interested in dealing with you personally. Now--get dressed."

Swallowing hard, Luke prodded at the bundle the officer had brought, and discovered it to be a collection of clean clothes wrapped around a new pair of shoes. The soft, sturdy fabrics were pale beige and tan, and not too different in cut from his around-the-farm wear back home. Light cloth, less flowing tunic, slightly looser pants...

This was Tatooine garb, he realized--townie clothes, a slightly higher grade and cut than his old whites, one of the types commonly worn by folk who lived within the cities. A cleaner, more expensive version of the clothes he'd arrived here in.

The confusion must have shown on his face, since it actually drew a coolly amused smile from the lieutenant. "Lord Vader ordered these," he said, while Luke stared. "I believe he thought it would be more agreeable to you to wear this, rather than a spare Imperial uniform."

Luke barely managed a nod, unable to wrap his mind around whatever was going on here. No matter what he thought of Imperials and their procedures, this was just..._backwards_, he was sure. He was being treated more along the lines of a _guest_, rather than a prisoner.

But his captors _were_ growing impatient, so he swallowed down his embarrassment and stripped out of the medbay robe, down to his undershorts, and hurriedly pulled on the new ensemble. After months of flight suits and fatigues, the Tatooine clothes felt...comfortable and familiar, and far more settling than he would've thought. Like pulling a lens into place, they helped make things clear.

Tatooine. He was still here--he was _home_. No matter what had happened, no matter how he'd wanted out--this was his world, his place; he knew it well, its seasons and rhythms, its patterns and paths. If he could not realistically depend on his father for rescue--no matter how much he _wanted_ to--then here, on this world, was his best chance of getting himself out.

As they marched him out of the medbay, guarded on all sides, he took a deep, centering breath. Now was not the time to act, here in the middle of whatever Imperial installation this was. Ben had told him to be _patient_, so he would--he would _try_ anyway, though patience was not in his nature. He would wait, and watch, and be ready.

Less than a hall away, his captors turned him into a small, gray room with nothing inside but a table and a small door--which was either a closet or a small refresher unit. On the table was a large glass of water and a plate of food; a thick slab of bantha, probably, along with mashed sand-tubers and gravy and a serving of local-grown green vegetables--a quite common, everyday Tatooine meal. Not at all what he imagined as prison food, or even Imperial rations.

_Well, beggars can't be choosers._

And he wasn't about to complain--not when he was feeling rather hungry indeed and this was likely his last meal for a while. He ate neatly and rapidly, keeping an ear on the door as he did; he didn't know how much time he was allotted, and he didn't want another scare.

He was already scared enough.

Trapped in a weird upside-down Imperial base where they did things backwards and all he had to look forward to at this point was apparently an interrogation by Darth Vader. Whatever that meant. Given how he'd been treated so far...but then, maybe they _were_ just softening him up...the Sith Lord had seen to Leia personally too, and she had received neither new clothes nor meal nor mercy...

Even after his food was gone, he was left alone in the small room for a long while, wondering what was going on outside. The small "closet" did turn out to be a 'fresher, which he made use of, washing up and making an effort to straighten his hair, then sat at the table and waited. Foot-tapping, worried, impatient despite his attempts to be calm--the sheer weirdness of his experience here kept him from being certain what was to happen to him, and that uncertainty was more unsettling in its own way than a thousand promises of death and torture.

It was the _not knowing_ that frightened him.

Eventually, they came for him. It was a different officer, this time--a harder-faced man, higher ranked, with more guards. This time, they were a little rougher, and they fitted his wrists with binders before briskly moving him out the door. Luke resisted a little, pulling back and fighting the new restraint, but even then the troopers did not strike him--they only shoved him along, refusing to be drawn into a confrontation. Their silence and purpose keyed up his heartbeat, tightened his chest--there was a sense of _purpose_ now, and he knew something was about to happen.

He realized what it was when they drew up to a set of large sliding doors, many halls later--that electric-stormcloud prickle that he realized was coming through the Force, not his own adrenaline, somewhere close ahead. It had calmed since its devastating explosion on the farm and was settled from the roiling, twisting maelstrom it had been standing beside his bed, but he knew what it was.

Darth Vader was waiting for him.

Cold, dark, and impatient--he didn't know how exactly he knew, but somewhere in that black cloud ahead was a definite feeling of annoyance and haste. He knew, in a vague, uncertain sort of way, that he'd always been somewhat aware of the moods of people around him...but before Ben he'd never known it was coming from the Force and before Vader he'd never felt anyone so..._loudly_. Except maybe Leia, but even she wasn't so thunderous.

Then the large doors ground open to reveal a wide, walled-in landing field, spread with ships here and there and busy with pilots and troopers and transports. Loudspeakers blared orders and men marched to and fro, and suddenly things seemed much more normal for an Imperial base--as opposed to the oppressive quiet of the long gray halls. The suns overhead were high and hot, showing it to be mid-afternoon and turning the duracrete surface to a frying-pan.

But even that overbearing heat couldn't stop the chill that spun through him as Luke caught sight of a familiar ship sitting in the middle of the pad, sleek lines far more elegant than any boxy shuttle, its smooth, dark gray surface almost as black as the armor of the man who flew it--the man who paced near its entrance ramp with a squad of stormtroopers in parade attendance to see him off.

The moment he set foot on the duracrete, the Sith Lord whirled to face him across the expanse--as if someone had shouted--and deep within somehow he _felt_ that restless black sea kick up again into swells that were a faint echo of the storm it had been at his bedside. He froze where he was, under the Dark Lord's scrutiny, and couldn't get his legs to move.

Luke took one crazy moment to wonder how Vader could stand the heat in all that black. But then he was being shoved forward, regardless of how he tried to dig in his heels, and he could no longer spare thoughts for frivolous meanderings. As much as everything had been too slow in the last who-knew-how-many hours, now it was all too fast--much too fast, and he really didn't want to face Vader again despite all his defiance and bravado--he'd really prefer to go back and sit in that empty medbay for _weeks_ rather than go near his father's killer--

And then he was less than two meters away from the dark giant, and his attempts at calm and patience were for nothing, because he was shaking with fear and anger and any thoughts of escape seemed so futile now...

"He is unharmed?" rumbled the bass voice--not addressed to him, though it felt like the eyes behind the faceplate never left him.

"As per your orders, my Lord," the officer in charge of him replied, saluting smartly. "He's been cleared by the medic and fed."

"Good work, Colonel." Vader turned, just a little, to regard the base's executive officer. "See that the rest of my orders are carried out. I will take custody of the boy."

The colonel gave a brisk nod, saluting again. "As you wish, my Lord."

The troopers pushed Luke forward, within the Sith Lord's reach. He knew how useless it was to run--surrounded, Imperials behind and Vader in front. He felt very small.

"Get on board," Vader ordered, causing Luke to flinch at the direct tone. When he didn't move, Vader reached out, a broad hand taking hold of his good shoulder and pressing him toward the ship's ramp. The mismatched pair entered the shuttle, leaving the collection of Imperial troops behind.

Luke wanted to fight, wanted to throw himself back and revel in the defiance he'd feverishly enjoyed on the farm, but his own terror kept him stiff and trembling under the Sith's heavy hand. It was too confusing; he didn't know what was going _on_--where were the torture droids, the interrogation chambers, the pain and the questions? Where was the relentless agony and harsh mind-probe Leia had haltingly described? Where was the abuse, the starvation and the threats?

He was even more surprised when he was not shoved toward the back of the ship, to the little holding cell that had been his quarters; Vader's firm grip guided him toward the cockpit, where the Sith Lord unceremoniously dropped him into a chair behind and to the side of the pilot's seat.

"Do not touch anything," Vader said at last, making him jump again as the Sith settled into the pilot's chair. "Or I _will_ return you to the cell in the rear."

Well, there was the threat part, he considered--a piece of his mind was so far over the edge of fear that it had turned to morbid humor to keep him steady. There was that lingering promise of removing a hand or two if he fiddled with the ship, too. He wondered if Vader would toss him in the cell if he talked--at least it would be further away from the Dark Lord.

The ship was already through with preflight, and lifted smoothly away from the ground. Luke, always fascinated by flying machines no matter how dire the situation, couldn't help but watch Vader's hands moving expertly over the controls. No jerks, no hesitations--this was a man who knew his machine intimately, like Luke knew his X-wing.

It was...strange. He'd heard the reports and the stories, but he'd never really contemplated Vader flying ships. Imperial high mucky-mucks usually got flown around by other people, like rich holo-actors in hover-limos. He'd never thought of Vader as a _pilot_ before.

Someone who _flew_, like himself...

Luke swallowed again, sitting back in his chair. He was afraid--his hands still trembled--but he didn't know what to expect. He was angry--he still hated the enigmatic shadow before him, who had murdered his father--but he had no idea what to do about it right now. Vader was powerful and relentless; what could one unarmed farm-boy with few other skills than piloting do against a Sith Lord?

"What's going on?" he murmured, half-surprising himself, as he hadn't expected to say anything aloud.

"We are returning to the Lars farm," Vader replied--startling him further to have been heard. "We have a...project to finish, and a Jedi to find."

Luke's anger kicked up to _fury_ at that, and for a moment he wanted to jump up and strike out at the Sith with his _bare hands_ if he had to--but then the black helmet tilted in his direction and a cold burst of fear stilled him. "I won't help you," he grated, repeating his earlier promises. "I won't let you kill my father."

Vader actually turned to him, then, dark lenses staring into him for long, measured breaths. Luke imagined he could feel the stormy sea within the black figure begin to roil again, with things he couldn't begin to name. He found himself holding his breath, pressed back into his chair by the weight of that gaze, his heart fluttering like a child who'd said the wrong thing.

Then, finally, Vader turned back to the viewscreen, letting him breathe again. "We shall see, young one," the Sith rumbled, strangely soft. "So long as you cooperate, there will be no need for killing."

Luke's jaw dropped, and he could only sit staring dumbly in disbelief at the back of the Sith Lord's helmeted head as they flew on to their destination.

_To be continued..._


End file.
